


Chronicles of Narnia: The Western Darkness

by allen_bair



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:39:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 57,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22619503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allen_bair/pseuds/allen_bair
Summary: Just as the four kings and queens of Narnia rediscover an old lamppost in the middle of the woods, an injured knight of an unknown kingdom far to the west stumbles across them chased by bestial savage creatures called "orcs." Now, High King Peter must decide to lend Narnia's aid against Sauron, and march their armies under the lion's banner into the heart of Mordor. Incorporates material from the LOTR universe books, movies, and games as well as the Chronicles of Narnia books and movies.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 48





	1. Chapter 1

The summer day was warm, but not hot as the four horses crashed through the western woods in chase. The white stag had been spotted and the kings and queens of Narnia were not to be denied their prize that day. Peter, High King of Narnia, took the lead upon his white stallion followed by his younger brother, King Edmund, and their sisters, Queen Susan, and Queen Lucy. Having been crowned by Aslan Himself, the great lion, and the son of the Emperor across the Sea, together, they had ruled the Kingdom of Narnia by royal council for nearly four decades in peace. 

After having been through a week of negotiating new trade and defense agreements with Archenland on their immediate border to the south, and listening to their military advisers on the movements of Calormen’s troops, the brothers and sisters had chosen to take these past two days in the Western Woods, nearly to the far western borders of their dominion, away from the seat of their government at Cair Paravel on the coast to the east and attempt to enjoy themselves before having to return to deal with those far southern, desert dwelling neighbors that had proven themselves untrustworthy and belligerent time and time again.

The reports on Calormen’s movements were especially troubling to the High King because they were confusing. According to Archenland’s agents, and their own scouts, talking horses that infiltrated Calormen’s cavalry units in order to gather information, the bulk of that kingdom’s forces were moving west into the unknown lands beyond, but no one could discern why. Only that an ancient ally to the hostile kingdom was gaining power again and had called on their aid. Aid, it was believed, which might be reciprocated with additional forces to threaten Narnia’s borders. But neither the Narnians nor Archenlanders had ventured beyond the wastes which lie on their western borders. This new potential enemy was an unknown to the High King and his siblings.

“Look, there he is!” Shouted Susan playfully as she pointed in a direction deeper into the woods. She had taken her crown at the tender age of twelve years old, just a year behind her brother Peter. Now, just past her fifth decade of life, her dark brown hair sported silver highlights, and her face had been graced with laugh lines. But she had lost none of her health or vigor as of yet, and her laugh lines had been well earned with a lifetime of good friendships among the Narnian peoples.

“I see him!” Edmund responded. One year younger than his sister, his own head and beard were silvered as well, the color well earned from the wisdom he had acquired and demonstrated. He was known as King Edmund the Just for good reason, for he was fair in all his dealings, and dispensed both justice and mercy in equal measure, for to him they were no different. He laughed as he spurred his own horse onwards. “Bet we catch him before you do!”

They had no desire to actually harm the white stag. Far from it. It was all in good fun. In truth, they didn’t really care if they caught him or not. There was an old legend which said that the white stag would grant wishes to those who caught him. But for the rulers of Narnia, the diversion from the weight of governing their kingdom was wish granted enough. Soon, they would need to return to deal with the matters of state once more.

The horse chased the stag onwards until it disappeared once more into brush through which the horses could not follow.

“Well rats! We’ve lost him!” Peter called out in a frustrated voice even as the thrill of the chase had produced a wide grin across his mouth. He pulled his own horse up to a full stop and his siblings followed suit. He had been given the title of “King Peter the Magnificent,” and no one could say that it had not been well earned. He had fought sword to sword with the White Witch herself, had led the Armies of Aslan in the great war, and was as good and wise a ruler as any kingdom could hope for. Like his brother, he wore a beard streaked with silver and gray which betrayed his fifty three years of age, and the forty years he had sat on the throne of Narnia as it’s king and emperor of all of its dependent islands and provinces.

“Well, it was a good chase at any rate.” Queen Lucy had remarked. The youngest of the four, she was also the most gentle in spirit, and was known to be a great healer and diplomat. “It’s too bad, I would like to have spoken with the stag. He must have some amazing stories to tell.” She mused.

“No doubt, Lu.” Peter replied. He then took some time to look around and get his bearings. He knew almost every square inch of their kingdom by heart, but he had to admit, it had been some time since he had been this far west. Years, perhaps decades even. “Where are we?” He finally asked. “We must be some distance from the great river.”

“It looks familiar.” Susan said. “I think Tumnus’ house isn’t too far from here.” The aged faun was one of their oldest advisers, and also one of their first friends upon arriving in Narnia from the world of their birth.

“I think you’re right.” Lucy replied. Then, spying something odd she nudged her horse down an old forest path just a little ways. “Peter, Edmund, Susan, would you come take a look at this?” She called back to them.

“What is it, Lucy?” Susan returned, bringing her horse up to where her younger sister was.

“I’m not sure.” She said. “It looks like a tree, but made of metal, and with a funny looking fruit at the top made of glass!” 

Susan studied the strange tree even as her brothers came up to join them. “It feels familiar. Like something I remember from another life.”

“It’s a lamppost.” Peter announced upon seeing it, though his voice sounded somewhat uncertain. “I remember, from… from London I think.”

“London...” Susan tested the foreign sounding word, and yet not so foreign. It conjured up strange images in her mind. Not Narnian images at all, but images of a great city with tall buildings, and smoke, and crowds of people. It conjured other images as well. Images of buildings torn apart by explosions from bombs dropped by machines that flew through the sky. But the images were all a jumble, like something from a dream she hadn’t thought about for a long time.

They all looked at the lamppost for some time as though trying to remember something they had forgotten. A life they had lived, and people they had once been many, many years ago.

Then, suddenly, out of the woods, a man crashed onto the path where their horses stood. He wore a maul hauberk and armor with a surcoat over them in dark, midnight blue colors emblazoned with a white tree and stars surrounding it. His head was bleeding from a deep wound, the blood having matted his dark blond hair. An arrow protruded from his back having somehow penetrated the mail coat he wore.

“HELP ME!” He cried out to the royal gathering. “Orcs behind me! Orcs that walk in sunlight! They’ve killed the rest of my men!”

Instinctively, Peter and Edmund drew their swords, sensing danger at the man’s words. Susan, never without her bow when on a hunt, drew it and nocked an arrow. Lucy, with less than a thought, dismounted and ran to the man, pulling her bag of healing ointments and potions from her saddle.

Within seconds, four others broke through the brush of the woods and onto the old path. They were like no creatures any of them had ever seen. They looked similar to humans like themselves, but twisted and corrupted into unholy caricatures of the children of Adam. Their skin was deep, dark black and not like the dark skin of the Calormens, but as though it were the color of coal. They were muscular, and had mouths full of sharp teeth like wolves. Their ears held pointed tips, and their eyes were small, yellow, and cruel. The sigil of a white hand was painted across their jet black faces. They radiated evil in a way the kings and queens had not felt since the days of the White Witch.

Sword held high, Peter didn’t hesitate and neither did his brother. They charged the foul creatures on their war horses as Susan began letting arrows fly that did not miss. Not one. Her archery skills were legendary.

Taken by surprise, the orcs raised their own weapons to meet their new human attackers, but did not get the chance to make use of them as the first was felled immediately by an arrow between its cruel eyes. The second felt the edge of the High King’s justice across its neck as its head was severed from the blow. The third was trampled down by King Edmund’s horse, it’s own head cracked open by the blows. Black oily blood spilled hatefully onto Narnia’s pristine forest floor.

They pulled up short from executing the fourth immediately, instead the High King shouted at it, “Surrender, foul creature. Surrender to our mercy, or join your mates!” It would be the only offer it was given.

Either the orc did not understand his words, or did not understand the concept, as it roared in defiance and charged the humans that had felled his comrades.

It took two steps and then joined the others on the ground, an arrow lodged in its skull from Susan’s bow.

A silence fell over the forest as the four listened for any more. But nothing more askance was heard.

“Thank… thank you...” the human whom Lucy was tending said.

“Don’t try to talk much yet. Let the potions do their work. I still need to remove this arrow.” She told him as she had him on his side trying to discern the best way to do just that without causing more damage. It was a thick, heavy, black arrow and she was afraid the tip was barbed.

Peter dismounted from his horse, checked the fresh corpses to ensure they were truly dead, and then went to kneel next to his youngest sister to look at the wounded man.

“I don’t recognize the sigil of your surcoat, friend. What kingdom are you from?” The High King asked.

“Gondor, sire.” The man replied.

“Gondor...” A name even more unfamiliar to Peter than London. “Where is that? Farther west? What brought you to Narnia? And what were these things that attacked you, and why?”

“I… I was...” The man tried to respond, but his eyes fluttered and he passed out.

“He’s lost a lot of blood, Pete.” Lucy told him. “I can mend him enough here to put him on a horse, but I’ll need to tend him back in Cair Paravel in order for him to fully recover.”

“Fine.” Peter responded seriously, but not unkindly. His eyes still scanning the woods from whence the orcs came. “Let’s get him back. We need to know what we can about these creatures, and whether they pose a new threat to Narnia.”

“Agreed.” Edmund said, his own eyes scanning the woods.

The lamppost had been forgotten as their world was forever changed by the arrival of the strange soldier.

* * *

The soldier woke to the sounds of waves crashing against the shore in the not too far distance, and seagulls calling to one another. He found himself lying in a bed with soft sheets wrapping a mattress stuffed with feathers. His chain mail hauberk had been removed, and his wounds had been bandaged well to where he could feel no pain from the orcish arrow which he had been only too recently certain would end his life, or the gash across his scalp where an orcish blade had nearly cleaved his skull in two if it weren’t for his misplaced footing on a slope.

He sat up in the bed and spied his new surroundings. He was in a stone work chamber with large windows whose intricately carved wooden shutters were open to an expansive view of a seaside he did not recognize. Rich scarlet and gold silken curtains hung across them, and intricate tapestries depicting scenes of a great battle and a majestic lion decorated the walls. The air outside smelled of salt, and the rays of an early morning sun shone through the openings. The bed he lay in was the only one in the room. 

There were two others present there in the chamber. One was cocoa skinned, well muscled and powerfully built wearing a highly polished steel breastplate, emblazoned with the crest of a roaring lion, over thick leather armor that looked just as well kept, but also just as formidable. This one carried a sword in a sheath on its back, and stood by a heavy wooden door. The other, dressed quite differently stood near his bed.

Sitting up drew the attention of the creature standing near by tending to bottles and bandages on a table. He was certain he had never seen such a creature before. It wore a white coat and spectacles over a forest green dress. The creature had a woman’s face and torso, pretty even, but with two distinctly goat like horns protruding out from hair the color of red autumn leaves braided into a rope down her back. Her bottom half, partially obscured by the white coat and dress, was covered in reddish brown fur and cloven hooves.

“Oh my! You’re awake finally! I must tell their majesties.” The creature announced with a woman’s voice before rushing out of the well lit room.

Stunned at the sight of the strange creatures, who in spite of their appearance did not feel threatening to him in the slightest, he did not respond as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. The last thing he remembered was running across four richly dressed strangers on horseback before succumbing to his wounds, and one of those strangers asking him questions. He had been the last of his company, chased by orcs across the wasteland east of Mordor through that unknown forest. The rest of his fellows had not been so fortunate. There had been ten of them when they set out from Minas Tirith.

“Where am I?” He finally asked when he came to himself.

“You’re in the castle of Cair Paravel by the sea, friend. Their majesties found you wounded while out on a hunting expedition. You’re lucky her majesty Queen Lucy tended you when she did or else you likely wouldn’t have woken up ever again.” His goat like guard told him.

“Queen Lucy?” The soldier asked in confusion. “I know of no such queen with that name. What land is this?”

“What land?” The guard replied in surprise. “Why this is Narnia, of course. Everything from the western woods to here at Cair Paravel is the Kingdom of Narnia. You look to be Archenlander, are you not?”

“I am not.” the soldier told him. “But I must return home as soon as possible. I have important information for the Steward of Gondor. It cannot wait.”

“That’s not for me to decide friend. Their majesties will decide when and if you’re ready to go.” The guard told him. His tone was still friendly, but firm as he eyed the curious human that had been brought there to the capital the night before.

“Not be rude, but what manner of creature are you? I’ve never seen your like before.” The soldier asked. It was true. Of course, he hadn’t seen many other of the more friendly races to man in Middle Earth either, but he had heard descriptions of elves, hobbits, and dwarves, and tales regarding them. But he had heard not even fanciful stories of goat men.

“No offense taken, friend. I’m a faun, or satyr if you like. I’ve heard my people called that too. It makes no difference to me.” The faun replied. He then said, “I’ve never heard of a land called Gondor before, much less a steward of it. Where does this land lie?”

Before the soldier could answer, the heavy wooden door opened once more and the other faun, a woman of her race the soldier guessed, returned followed by two of the humans whose faces he only vaguely remembered from before he woke to the two fauns watching over him. The one human was a tall, middle aged man with silver streaked beard and hair wearing rich clothing embroidered with the red crest of the roaring lion. A heavy golden band surrounded his head denoting his rank as High King. The second human was a somewhat younger woman whose hair had not yet begun to gray. Her turquoise dress was made of rich fabrics, and also bore the red lion crest. She too wore a golden diadem across her brow. This face he recognized as the woman who came to his aid with medicines and healing.

“How are you feeling?” She spoke first, a genuine and infectious smile across her lovely face. “We were very concerned for you. The arrow was barbed, and your wound was festering with a poison I haven’t seen before.”

The king’s face also bore a friendly expression, although the soldier could see concern and agitation at his presence and what it meant written there as well. He would be expected to explain himself, and shortly.

“Well, thank you, my lady.” The soldier replied.

“You will address the queen as ‘your majesty.’” The faun guard corrected him, his tone stern.

“That’s alright, Banion. He meant no offense. He’s not from Narnia.” She told the faun, then turning back to the soldier still sitting on the bed she asked, “are you?”

“My apologies, your majesty.” The soldier corrected himself. “No, I am not.”

“Indeed.” The king then spoke up. “And where are you from? You mentioned a land no one in Narnia has ever heard the name of until two days ago. A land called… what was it again, Lucy?”

“Gondor, I believe. Though I’ve no idea where that might be.” She responded.

“Yes, Gondor. We know all the lands surrounding our kingdom, from Harfang in the Ettenmoors to the north to Archenland and Calormen in the south, and the Lone Islands across the sea to the east. We have ruled here for forty years, and no one has mentioned the land of Gondor until now. Much less those foul things which attacked you. Those are new to us as well, and we have many different races residing within our borders.” The king told him. “They had an evil feel about them. One which brings back memories I’d rather not relive.”

“The names of those lands mean as little to me as the name of mine means to you, your majesty. Perhaps I should start at the beginning.” The soldier told him.

“Perhaps you should.” The king agreed, and then stood there with arms folded waiting.

“Your majesty, my name is Sir Eric of Belfalas. I am a knight of Gondor, a land and kingdom far to the west of here, across the wasteland on the other side of Mordor. About a month’s worth of travel on horseback I would guess. I am a nobleman with lands of my own. For centuries, my people had held the line against the orcs and the evil which commands them. But year after year, century after century they have whittled us down, taking half of our kingdom and our capital, Osgiliath, in the process. Now there is only Minas Tirith, the white city, which is left to protect our people. Our armies are heavily depleted now, and there is concern about how much longer we can hold out. The northern, southern, and western borders of Mordor are mountainous and heavily fortified. I was sent out by the Steward of Gondor four months ago to lead nine others of an expeditionary force to scout the eastern flank of the land of Mordor for weaknesses that we might exploit against the orcs and their dark master. We had one advantage to them. The orcs are sensitive to light, especially sunlight. They fear it. We moved during the day, taking refuge in caves and crevices at night and when the sun hid itself behind clouds, but we managed to see for ourselves the eastern borders of the cursed land, that it was made up of wasted plains, and not mountains or hills. And it was practically unguarded. Farther east, none of my people had ever ventured, and by the looks of it, neither have Sauron’s forces. His attention is turned entirely west, towards us.”

At the mention of that name, a shudder ran through the king involuntarily. The very word felt foul and loathsome. “Sauron.” He repeated, not liking the feel of it upon his tongue. “This is the master of this land you called Mordor? The ancient evil which you spoke of.”

“Yes, your majesty. We could not believe how kindly fortune had smiled on us when we discovered Mordor’s back door left almost completely unguarded. But we had become too cocky, and I see that now. We had trusted that the orcs could not operate in the sunlight, and then we were surprised.”

“The ones who chased you through the western woods.” The king followed him.

“Yes. They took us by chance.” The soldier replied. “There were twice as many of them as there were of us at first. My guess is that it was a regular patrol which we could not have foreseen. They came on us at the noon time. Half of my men died there making our stand. Myself and four others, seeing we could not prevail retreated farther east in the hopes of losing them in the crevices and broken landscape of the wastes. The orcs however were relentless. It seemed like they did not sleep, and tracked us through the desert, not caring if their own fell from hunger, thirst, or wild animals. I lost two more men in as many days from vipers. The orcs came upon us as we attempted to make a proper burial for them, and took my lieutenant and sergeant as well, giving me the slash across my head. I thought I was dreaming when I saw the forest at the edge of the wastes three days after I think. They shot me just as I reached the trees, and the rest you know.”

The king listened intently to his every word. Then he asked, “Did you see any men, any humans heading west? Cocoa skinned men from the south?”

“I’m sorry to say we did. We saw many men from the Harad in the south traveling in great numbers towards Mordor. Those we saw before we were attacked were welcomed by the orcs as allies.” The soldier replied. “And this is why I must return as swiftly as I can to make my report to Lord Denethor, the Steward of Gondor. He must know of the arrival of those human forces, as well as the open back door, so to speak, which we might make use of.”

The High King’s mind whirred with all the implications of the knight’s tale. He recalled the orcs he, his brother, and sister had slaughtered clearly. They appeared to be bestial, brutal, and savage things. Then the thought of whole armies of them ran through his mind and it was nightmarish. The knight had said their master had his focused turned west for centuries. Long before his and his siblings’ arrival there for certain, and even before the hundred year winter and the reign of the White Witch, the usurper Jadis who herself had been ancient before even then, or so he had been told. Was it possible that this Sauron did not know of their existence? Was it possible perhaps that somehow Aslan had hidden Narnia’s existence from the rest of their world so that the witch had been the worst they had been made to suffer with? Those orcs who had found their way here had paid for it with their lives, and would not be returning to tell the tale of the green and growing land untouched by their deprivations. But would they be missed? Would their compatriots come looking for them? How much longer would Narnia be at peace if the kingdoms to the far west should fall? How much longer till this Sauron repays the loyalty of the men of the south, and turns his eyes towards Narnia? And then the greater question to them all still surfaced in his mind, for he ruled as High King, indeed his siblings and he ruled as kings and queens only by the Great Lion’s pleasure.

What would Aslan have him do? What would the Lion’s will be in this matter?

They had not heard from the True King of Narnia since their coronation decades ago. It was assumed he had returned to his own country across the sea to the utter east, a land to which none of them dared to travel. But regardless of his presence or absence, Peter would not make the mistake that Aslan was not keenly aware of the goings on in his favored kingdom, and indeed, the entire world. After all, it was Aslan who created it in the first place as he was told, and as he personally believed.

The king had been silent for several moments as he deliberated. In that time, no one had said anything, but instead waited for him to speak again. When he did, his voice was serious, but no less friendly to the man.

“Lucy and I must confer with our brother and sister. We make no decisions alone.” he finally said. “However, I invite you to be a true guest of Cair Paravel for the time being. Wander where you will, see what you like, but do not leave the castle grounds, or stray farther than the beach below. Banion here will be your escort.” He said, gesturing to the faun who still stood guard.

Banion the faun gave a half bow in return, responding, “As you wish, your majesty.”

“And Elise,” the High King addressed the female faun in the white coat, “please see to it that Sir Eric’s clothes and armor are mended and cleaned for him, and that he has proper attire befitting his noble rank in the meantime.”

The faun curtsied as she responded, “Yes, your majesty. At once.”

Then turning to Sir Eric once more, he told him reassuringly, “Have no fear. As Aslan wills it, you now have friends here in the east whom your enemy knows nothing about. But now these matters concern us more than just returning you home. If you are right in what you say, if we do nothing, the one who is your enemy today may become our nightmare tomorrow.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sir Eric stood upon the beach beneath the keep of Cair Paravel and breathed in the salty sea air deeply. His sword was kept in the room where he first awoke in the castle, but he felt no need of it in that place. Nearby, the faun Banion stood watching over him and their surroundings, but did not appear to be expecting any serious trouble.

True to the king of Narnia’s word, they had provided him with a richly inlaid forest green tunic with golden threads, a fine cloak made from seal skin, leather belt with brass buckle, woolen breeches and soft leather boots which were detailed and well made. If he were to be honest however, the clothes he now wore were more fine and expensive than he would have ever chosen for himself. His first thought was that they had dressed him from the king’s own wardrobe until his escort had led him through the castle and he saw that his manner of dress was not terribly different from even the servants. 

The beach and scenery reminded him much of his home in Belfalas, west of Minas Tirith on the south coast where his lady wife, Adora, young daughter, Mila, and squire son awaited his return. The thought of them struck his heart with some pain. It had been four months since he had seen them last. Duty to his kingdom was paramount. When the Steward called him, his oaths to Gondor demanded he respond, and they understood that. It was a virtue he had tried to instill in his son as he prepared for knighthood. The boy, Aidan, was still several years away from such an eventuality, being only of sixteen years, but he was already strong, a capable swordsman, and a proficient rider. Nevertheless, Sir Eric had instructed him to resist the urge to answer the Steward’s call for more soldiers to be thrown at the orcs, remain at home on their lands and protect his mother and sister. Duty to Gondor was paramount, but the protection of their family was of the utmost importance with his absence.

The ongoing conflict with Mordor was not going well. It had never gone well since even the days of the kings of Gondor centuries before. He had not exaggerated the orcs’ advances, or the threat they posed with the king of Narnia. He knew his history well enough to know that Minas Morgul had not always been in dark hands. The Black Gate had originally been built by his people to keep the orcs in, and the forces of the enemy had turned the tables and used it as a fortification against those who built it. And he had heard of a time when Osgiliath did not lie in ruins, fought over endlessly by men of Gondor and the hellspawn of Mordor. He had no idea how orcs bred, or if they were created by the whims of dark sorcerers fully formed, but Mordor seemed to have an endless number of them. For every orc head which Gondor took, ten more seemed to rise up and fill in the gaps. Mordor continued to throw them at Gondor, and Gondor, unable to replenish their own forces as quickly continued to lose ground. It only grew worse as news of the return of the dark lord Sauron spread.

But here, far away from his homeland, he could imagine just for an instant that there was no war. There was only the peaceful crashing of waves against rocks and beach sand, the crying of seagulls, and the amiable companionship of his non-human guide. He couldn’t have imagined any of it barely a week ago combing through the wastes and gray, desolate landscape of eastern Mordor. He certainly never imagined after he had felt the arrow hit his shoulder blade and puncture through that he would survive to see it.

Briefly he imagined that he hadn’t actually survived, and somehow he had actually awoken in the lands to the far west, where white shores welcomed the virtuous and just. He could imagine that well, and a smile crossed his lips at the equally morbid and pleasant, but somewhat silly thought.

“What amuses you, friend?” Banion asked him, allowing the grin to spread to his own features.

“It was a silly thought. This place is so pleasant, I imagined for an instant that I had died from the arrow, and had instead awoken triumphantly in Valinor.” Sir Eric replied, picking up a stone for no reason and throwing into the waves.

“Valinor? Where is that?” The faun asked. “I know nothing of the geography of the west.”

“Valinor is as far west as one can go, I suppose. It’s far across the sea, to the utter west. It is the home of the valar, and the ancient home of the elves to which I have heard they have received the call to return in these times. It is to where the virtuous and righteous travel when the bonds of life have been cut.” Sir Eric explained. He had been himself taught about Valinor, the valar, the elves and more by loremasters when a youth. It hadn’t occurred to him that anyone civilized would not know.

“This sounds like Aslan’s country.” Banion observed, though appeared quizzical at the mention of “elves.” “It lies that way however, to the utter east and where the salty waters end and turn sweet.” The faun pointed with his hand out across the ocean eastwards. “No one from Narnia has ever made the attempt to sail there and returned.”

Sir Eric stopped and looked at the faun, considering his words. “I should wonder that we are not talking of the same land.”

The faun considered this and then replied, “Perhaps, but if this Valinor is to the west, and Aslan’s country is to the east, then the world would have to be round like a ball if they were the same land, wouldn’t it?” He gestured with his fingers, bringing them around in a circle.

They both laughed at the silliness of the thought. Of course everyone knew the world was flat.

When the chuckling died down, Sir Eric asked, “I have heard this name several times, Aslan. Who is he? What role does he play here. As I have heard people speak, it seems your kings and queens do everything in this Aslan’s name.”

“Now it is my turn to be surprised. I have never been asked that question before.” Banion replied. “Aslan is the true king of Narnia, the son of the Emperor-across-the-sea or so it is told. It is said that in the ancient past, he created everything you see here with his roar and breath alone; every rock, every tree, every animal, faun, and centaur. He is the Great Lion whose image you see on our banners and standards. It is he who crowned our kings and queens forty years ago after the defeat of the White Witch, though he has been seen in these lands little since. The kings and queens rule in his absence, and in his name.”

“Aslan is a lion?” Sir Eric asked, a tone of incredulousness entering his voice. “He is a beast who is called your true king?”

“He is the king of beasts, friend.” Banion responded, his tone becoming harder and more serious at the potential insult to the Great Lion. “I fought alongside him at that battle forty years ago, and under his banner. If you were to meet him in person, you would not use such an insolent tone.”

The knight stared for a minute, the grin on his face slowly disappearing as he saw the deadly seriousness of belief and faith in the faun’s eyes. This creature, his amiable and capable escort, would die at Aslan’s command without the merest hint of hesitation or question. He knew the kind of leader it would take to instill such fanatical devotion in a subject even when absent for decades. It was a king worthy of such reverence, and a devotion not to be mocked or trifled with.

“My apologies, sir.” The knight said with sincerity. “I meant no offense to your sovereign be he beast, faun, or man. It was only unusual to me, like much that I have encountered since waking here. We have no talking beasts of any kind in my country. I have rarely seen any other races but my own, and these only the occasional elf from Rivendell, dwarf of the Lonely Mountain, or hobbit of the Shire when they are friendly. Darker and more sinister things like orcs, goblins, or trolls in the service of Mordor when they are not.”

“Most of our people are not sons of Adam and daughters of Eve like yourself and their majesties,” the faun responded, “but there are a few who live peaceably enough within our borders. Most of them have come from Archenland, or some come having escaped from slavery among the Calormens. There are far more talking animals, fauns, centaurs, dryads, naiads, dwarves...”

“Dwarves? There are dwarves here in Narnia?” Sir Eric interrupted.

“Yes. They mostly keep to themselves and live in and under the mountains. They are good blacksmiths and miners.” Banion told him, curious at the knight’s interest in the sturdy but diminutive people. “Decades ago, many were in the service of the White Witch but after her defeat, they have become peaceable with us and we trade with them often.”

The knight considered the similarities with the dwarves he had known and heard of. Then, something the faun said struck him. “Why do you call humans ‘Sons of Adam and daughters of Eve?’ Who are they, this ‘Adam’ and ‘Eve’?”

Banion then scrunched up his face in thought. In truth, no one had ever asked that question either. “I honestly don’t know, friend! I’ve never been asked that before. It is the name which Aslan himself gave your people. I do not know why. Perhaps they were the first of your race, or at least people of importance to him?”

“Hmm. Adam...” Sir Eric tested the name on his tongue, thinking back to all of his instruction by his tutors in the ancient lore and history of Middle Earth. His own father, a nobleman had wanted more for his son than just the knowledge of how to wield a sword and so had spared no expense in educating him in how to read and write in the elvish tongues as well as the common, and to be familiar with the history and lore of the world. “This word sound much like the name the elves give us. They call us ‘Atani’ in their ancient tongue, and ‘Edain’ in the more recent for our people as a whole, or ‘Adan’ for just one of us. I wonder if, at some point in time, they all came from the same word. Maybe the same name. It is said that when Eru first created my people, we awoke in a land far to the east that the loremasters and scholars call ‘Hildorien,’ and from there followed the sun west. I wonder that I am now standing as far east as one might travel before needing a ship to set sail. Perhaps I have indeed come to legendary lands after all. Only the true names have been forgotten over the millennia.”

The knight became quiet at his new insight, and a kind of reverence fell over him at the thought of where he now stood, perhaps the very origin and ancient homeland of all the race of man. The thought was profound as he looked once more upon his surroundings with fresh eyes which began to tear. It was, perhaps, a little silly, but a feeling came over him at the thought as if he too belonged to that land in the far east, a son of Adam, a child of Narnia who had finally found his way home to paradise.

And then he realized, he had led the orcs straight there to that ancient paradaisical homeland as well. Should their fellows come looking for them, the fault would be his, and any deaths of these good and noble people here would be on his conscience. The thought of Sauron’s eye being turned on the east because of him weighed so heavily on him it was almost more than he could bear.

“All that is holy, forgive me. What have I done?” He asked himself, his stomach turning to a knot.

“Are you well, friend? Do we need to return to Elise and her medicines?” Banion asked, not understanding the change which had come over him. A sincere concern crossed his features.

Feeling the weight of responsibility for his actions, intended or not, the knight put his palm to his face, a look of pain crossing his countenance. “I need no medicines, friend faun. But no, I am not well. I am not well at all.” he replied.

* * *

High King Peter, surnamed like his siblings in another life “Pevensie,” King Edmund, Queen Susan, and Queen Lucy stood overlooking a map of their known world spread out on a table in a chamber off to the side of the great hall and throne room of Cair Paravel. It had been nicknamed “the war room,” by Edmund once upon a time in jest, though it had never seriously been used for anything like that purpose until recently with the revelations of Tisroc Rabadash of Calormen’s hostile intentions. The desert king had been banned by Aslan himself thirty years prior from traveling more than ten miles from Tashbaan, his capital, upon pain of permanent transformation into an ass for his plotting of an invasion of Archenland. He had sued for peace with Archenland and Narnia after that, but Calormen’s more recent troop movements had opened the kings’ and queens’ eyes once more to the desert kingdom’s military ambitions.

All four pairs of eyes now were not drawn to the southern desert on the map, but to the green and growing western woods, and the regions farther west where their maps ended completely.

“How is it that no one from Narnia ever traveled far west than these woods? How did no one know of what was out there?” Lucy asked. “It seems incredible that there should be such a larger world that we know nothing about.”

“I don’t know.” Peter responded. “Maybe they did. Maybe they traveled there and came back, and the maps were lost. It was a perpetual winter in Narnia for a century under Jadis.”

“She didn’t exactly encourage free thought or new exploration as I recall.” Susan remarked.

“No, she didn’t. And she had a penchant for murdering those who defied her.” Edmund added somberly, remembering their own experiences with the White Witch only too well.

“And we were busy rebuilding Narnia afterwards. We never had the time to look west. There was always too much to do right here at home.” Peter continued, answering his own question. “And now it feels like we might pay the price for our lack of vision.” He closed his eyes, as if a deeply buried memory had insistently surfaced. “Do any of you remember England? Our home before we came here?”

His brother and sisters looked up from the map at him, puzzled looks on their faces accompanied with attempts at recollection. He felt for them. It had been decades since they had been made to think about where they had been born and raised until puberty. Narnia had been their home for the vast majority of the years they had been alive, but there had been a time before. His encounter with the lamppost once more had brought those buried memories to the surface.

“Images have been coming to my mind more and more since that day we found the lamppost again.” Peter told them. “I hadn’t forgotten that it was there really, I had just never been given cause to think about it much since taking the crown, and England even less so. I’ve begun to remember being taught as a child with other children about the world we lived in then. I remember the tutor describing us as living in only a very small part of a huge globe of land and water, and yet at the time England seemed like the whole world when I was a small boy. Narnia seems so big to us now, just like England then. I feel stupid for not realizing the world had to be bigger.”

“England...” Edmund repeated the name. “I remember… buildings, and playing a game with a bat and a ball, and… and explosions all around us and having to take shelter underground. There was a war then in that world, wasn’t there?”

“I think so.” Peter replied. “It seemed like no matter how far we’ve come, war always finds us. Even here in Narnia.” He turned his gaze to the map again. “I don’t believe we can ignore the plight of this kinght or his country. Not when we might be able to help.”

“But that’s just it, isn’t it, brother dear?” Susan replied. “Are we really able to help? And should we? Would Aslan want us to?”

“What do you mean?” Peter questioned, standing up straight and looking at her directly.

She explained, “While our people will fight bravely to defend our own country, as they did before, we are not a warring kingdom. We are a kingdom of peaceful farmers, tradesmen, and talking animals who go about their own business, and leave others to theirs. We provide refuge for the escaped slaves from Calormen, but it has never been our wish or desire to march into the southern desert to free their brethren outright, and we certainly don’t keep a standing army capable of doing so in any event. In truth, it is the threat of Aslan’s retribution which continues to keep Calormen at bay. Not our military prowess.”

“All valid points, sister.” Peter conceded.

“And then there is the fact that just as we know nothing of the west, they too know nothing of us.” She continued. “In the centuries or even millennia of our existences, neither side has heard of the other. Don’t you think that strange? Shouldn’t someone from this kingdom in the west from where the knight comes, whose people seem to be far more curious and exploratory than our own, have found his way here and even established trade and commerce with Narnia long before we or even the White Witch began our rule here?”

“It is strange. Unbelievable even.” Lucy agreed.

“My only explanation is that Aslan kept them away in order to protect these lands from their wars and this dark lord. If we go marching west, we may be defying Aslan’s own will in the matter, being our isolation from them.” Susan concluded.

The other three considered her words well. As usual, the oldest sister presented her reasoning well. She was of course right on nearly every count. Even if they wanted to send troops against this unknown enemy, they would have to call for volunteers, almost none of whom had wielded a weapon much less used one in a battle for a very long time, if ever. And there was the question of Aslan’s will in the matter. She was right on this count as well. It was Aslan who really protected their kingdom while leaving the day to day governance to them. And for all they knew, it was Aslan who had kept prying eyes from the west away from them this entire time intending them to have no traffic, and to not become involved with their matters. Taking in refugee slaves was one thing. Invading another country was something else entirely.

“So what is your council then, sister?” Peter asked with humility.

“I say we should render all assistence in sending this knight home with enough supplies as he needs for the journey.” She told them. “Perhaps one of the griffins might even be willing to fly him to this Gondor. The griffins fly many times faster than even a horse can run, and can stay aloft longer than a horse can maintain a gallop. It would see him safely home without any danger of having to return by foot, and shave weeks off his journey at the very least. We can certainly do him this kindness. But more than this, without Aslan’s express blessing on the endeavor, I would be extremely hesitant to support, especially an invasion of a country, no matter how horrible, that has never once wronged Narnia itself, or even paid any attention to us.”

Peter looked thoughtfully between his brother and sisters. They were not the children they had been when they had been given their crowns. The rule and rebuilding of this land had wizened them all, and given them a perspective on such matters they never could have imagined at their coronations. They had learned the lesson children struggled with, that is, not to leap before they looked.

“What about about you, Ed? What are your thoughts?” The High King asked his co-ruler.

“I feel for this knight and his people. I feel that it would be right to help him in every way we can. But Susan is right. Aslan tasked us with protecting the people of this kingdom first, not the whole rest of the world. And any such conflict would cost lives. Narnian lives, as well as the lives of Archenlander soldiers should they choose to join us, which they would if we asked for their aid. King Lune and Prince Cor wouldn’t hesitate for a moment, especially if Calormen means to have this Mordor repay the favor of their help. Calling upon our people to protect this country from invasion is one thing, calling on them to fight a war for a kingdom and people they know nothing about is another. And we know next to nothing about this enemy’s strengths or weaknesses, how many troops they have, what weapons are at their disposal, not to mention what magical forces they might have at their disposal.”

Peter nodded his understanding, then turning to their youngest sibling, he asked, “Do you have anything to add, Lucy?”

The youngest of the Pevensie siblings had been mostly quiet this whole time, listening to her older brothers and sister and glancing down at the map of their world in thought as they spoke. She saw their reason and rationale, and did not disagree with it. She detested warfare, possibly more than any of them. She had no desire to see any of their friends march off to fight possibly never to return. The thought alone of the injuries which they might sustain sickened her as images from the final battle with the White Witch came to her mind and the wounds she had been called on to cure. And yet…

“I don’t know.” Lucy said, choosing her words carefully as she tried to describe the jumble of thoughts and emotions running through her mind. “I agree with you all of course. I hate war. You know this. I have no desire for Narnia to be dragged into one. But I have this feeling I cannot shake. I don’t know. I feel as though we cannot just turn a blind eye to a cry for help. Like Aslan wouldn’t want us to. And I feel like if we do choose to become deaf to this knight’s plea, all of Narnia and Archenland will regret it. I do not argue to charge blindly into war, but I too have a memory of childhood that is coming to my mind. A thing I have not thought on in more than forty years. I have a memory of mother and father talking about our country making peace with a horrible man, who then later broke all his promises and then father had to go off to war, and the bombs began falling on our house, and...” 

She stopped herself at the terrible memories as tears came to her eyes from the feelings of terror which she had experienced so many years before. The images and sounds of the explosions echoed in her mind just then as fresh as the night when they happened, and she felt as frightened and terrified as she did when she was a little girl.

Her siblings were stunned at her words and her reactions. But they had triggered within them as well childhood memories of a night filled with terror when they had not known if they were going to live or die.

“I- I remember too.” Peter told her, moving to stand near his sister and put his arm around her shoulder in sympathy. “I… I remember the horrible man’s name. Mother had said it was the German leader, a man named Hitler. The Prime Minister had made a peace agreement with him, and Hitler broke it and then attacked England.”

“Yes.” Lucy confirmed. “And our house was ruined, and we had to go live in the country away from mother, and father went to war… and we never saw them again.”

How could we have forgotten all of it? Peter seriously questioned himself. How could we have forgotten the events which led us to Narnia in the first place? Our parents? The war? Everything?

They were all quiet for some time, giving the younger queen a chance to shed what tears needed be and compose herself. Rather than say anything, Peter looked once more towards the map of Narnia and studied it further, hoping to gain some new insight from it which could help them decide. He had hoped that the consensus of the four would show the way forward, but he knew what they really needed then was Aslan’s guidance on such decisions. He did not want to move without knowing the will and mind of the Great Lion on the weighty subject, and this he had not yet been expressly given.

Just then, the heavy wooden door to the war room opened and a familiar and welcome aged faun wearing spectacles and dressed in a smart scarlet vest, white shirt, and blue jacket entered. He was carrying a long parcel wrapped in leather, and a distressed look was written across his features.

“Your majesties!” Mr. Tumnus, their oldest and dearest friend, as well as their chief of staff addressed them. Seeing the youngest queen’s distraught disposition, his expression took on a note of concern for his dear friend as well, and he looked abashed that he had interrupted them at such a moment, but still he persisted. “Your majesties, I apologize for the rude interruption to your private counsels, but I fear this can not wait.”

“It’s alright Tumnus.” The High King responded. “We know you wouldn’t have done so without good reason.”

“Yes, your majesty.” Tumnus continued. “A centaur came just now from the western woods having run since last night to bring us the dire news. He said there had been an attack! Evil creatures emerged from the wood and attacked a peaceful gathering of stargazers! They murdered three of those gathered before the centaurs dispatched the attackers, though the messenger believes at least one escaped back through the woods to the west.”

Peter felt a pit in his stomach at the news, and then looked to meet the eyes of Susan and Edmond before returning his attention to Tumnus. Knowing in his heart what the faun’s answer would be, he nevertheless asked the question, “What did these creatures look like?”

“The centaur told me himself, your majesty,” Tumnus began, “that they looked like misshapen humans with cruel eyes and pointed ears. He said their skin was as black as pitch, and their blood when spilled was like petroleum oil which comes up from the ground. He brought these as proof of the attack.”

The faun unraveled the leather bundle in his hands. Wrapped in the leather were the broken shafts of thick black arrows along with the bloodied, barbed arrowheads which had once been joined with them. The blood on them was centaur blood. Narnian blood.

Peter’s voice was tinged with anger and raspy as he asked, “How many were there? Does he know?”

“They counted over half a dozen which they had killed, your majesty.” The faun replied. Sensing that his news was not entirely unexpected, he then asked, “Do your majesties have an idea where these creatures came from?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Edmond replied. “It was the very thing we were just discussing, Mr. Tumnus.”

“I see. What are your instructions, then, your majesties?” The faun asked, steeling himself and not missing a beat.

Peter looked into the eyes of his siblings one more time. First to his brother Edmond whom he knew would be of one mind with him now. Narnian blood had been shed. Edmond met his brother’s eyes resolutely and nodded. Then he looked to Susan to find shock and horror written there. They exchanged all they needed to without words in those glances and Susan too nodded her assent. He then looked to Lucy, and did not need to discern her mind. Her eyes were angry, and determined. Narnians had now been attacked while they had been discussing it like an academic problem. Narnia itself was now under threat from this new enemy. There was no more discussion to be had.

“Instruct everyone living along the western borders to take up arms.” Peter instructed. “See to it that regular patrols along the Western Woods are set. Send to the dwarves for weapons and armor, enough to equip an army. Contact King Lune at once to request military aid.” He then turned once more to his siblings to ensure that they were still in accord. He saw no dissent in them. “And send out the call for volunteers. We muster an army.”

“At once, your majesty.” Tumnus responded, then taking the parcel with him, and understanding the seriousness of the situation, he turned to swiftly execute his king’s commands to the best of his abilities.

“We need no further proof of what future we look forward to if we do nothing. Whether we like it or not, this Sauron has brought his war to our borders. And even if today it is only a raiding party, who’s to say tomorrow it won’t be a full regiment? I for one will not wait to see if it happens. I will not turn a blind eye and make peace with an evil that would so casually murder our citizens for sport. I will not be that king.” Peter told his siblings as he turned to face them. “I will not make peace with Hitler.” He nodded towards Lucy as he said this last part, and she reciprocated.

“Nor will I, brother.” Edmond agreed.

“And Aslan?” Susan asked, fully aware that her reasoned argument had been thoroughly discarded. Indeed, the blood on the arrowheads had horrified her as well. But still, she had to ask, “What of his will and wishes in the matter?”

“He entrusted the governance and protection of Narnia to us.” Peter answered. “I must trust that if we take the wrong action in good faith, that he will show us this and correct our mistake. As High King I will take full responsibility before him if that time comes. But Narnians have died. We can no longer afford to wait.”


	3. Chapter 3

The western woods were quiet that night, the air was pleasantly cool after the warm summer’s day. The moon was full and bright in the sky. The patrol, two fauns, a centaur, and a young but large and powerful bear, walked north along the old forest path with their sensitive ears pricked. It had been five days since the attack on the gathering of stargazers, and the ordering of patrols along Narnia’s western border by the High King. An old claymore, unused for years and only recently sharpened, hung from a strap along the back of the centaur opposite the breastplate which he had donned for the first time since the defeat of the White Witch. Shields adorned with Narnian lion crests were strapped to the arms of the satyrs. They too had dug their old fighting armor and weapons out of nearly forgotten chests and from the backs of wardrobes in their homes. The bear wore no armor. He had none to retrieve from his den as he had not been alive to fight in the war the others had. He had been born in the time of peace that followed under the reign of the four sons of Adam and daughters of Eve. Nevertheless, he had answered the call of his High King to defend their country from these new invaders.

Patrols like theirs now walked the western border from the land of Telmar to the northwest as far south as the desert. When the call had gone out for such armed parties and the mustering of an army, and it became known what had happenedto their fellows, the veterans of the old war against the White Witch did not hesitate to answer. Many still remembered the time of the hundred year winter, and the cruelty of the self-proclaimed “Queen of Narnia.” They had no desire to suffer at the hands of another evil witch or wizard. The younger generations were not so certain, having only ever heard stories from their parents and grand-parents about those times. Like Queen Susan, many of these also questioned the wisdom and even the morality of taking up arms against a nation they didn’t know in what might have been a colossal misunderstanding. Others however, like the bear, followed their elders’ examples and signed up to at least walk the paths to protect their own homes and families.

It came as a surprise however when a group of minotaurs arrived to sign up. Their people had been loyal to the White Witch in the old war, and had suffered grievous losses as a result. At first the sergeant, a centaur who had been appointed to take in the new recruits, had been skeptical, the old suspicion and, yes even racism, flaring.

“How could we even trust your kind to fight under Aslan’s banner?” The sergeant had questioned pointedly.

The minotaur had sneered and bared his sharp teeth at first at the insult, but then composed himself, answering, “Narnia is our home too, centaur. We were loyal to our queen, and lost. Our quarrel with you died with her. Leave it dead.”

“Indeed.” The centaur had answered, taken aback. “Will you swear your allegiance to Aslan, and the sons of Adam and daughters of Eve who now rule, and be willing to die in their service if necessary?” He inquired, his tone less hostile than before.

The minotaur spokesman, a muscular, eight foot tall bull wearing leather and mail, turned back to silently question those others who had come with him. Receiving nods of assent from his companions, he drew a heavy double-bladed battle-ax from a harness on his back, held the flat of his blade to his chest with his right fist and responded, “To defend our homes and our families in the service of Narnia, we will.” He then added with a cheeky grin, “You forget, centaur. We’ve seen how your people fight. You will need real warriors if it comes to it.”

The centaur sergeant’s face flushed red with anger at the insult for a few moments. But then his own face broke out into a grin answering, “I suppose we may get the chance to see who is better, won’t we, minotaur? Make your mark here.” He pointed to the paper on the table in front of him.

The dryads of the trees to the left of the patrol were agitated, their branches and leaves restless even on a night with no breeze. The fauns, being closer in nature to their wooded kinsmen, felt it first, before the centaur or the bear.

“Hold.” The one faun said quietly, holding up a hand to gesture. “Something is not right. The trees are on edge.”

“I would not doubt it.” The centaur replied. “All of Narnia has been on edge for a week. Archenland too. I have heard that the dwarves have already sent their reserve stores of armor and weapons to Cair Paravel on the High King’s request, and are working around the clock to fashion more. It does not surprise me that the dryads would be worried. We all are.”

“No, it’s more than that.” the faun insisted, unsheathing the sword he carried from its scabbard.

“I agree.” his companion faun told them as well, following the first’s example.

Sniffing the air, the bear remarked, “I smell something foul on the air, sour, like the stench of an unwashed dwarf. It’s strong and close.”

The centaur, taking their words well into consideration, loosed the strap from his own four foot blade and took the weapon into his own calloused hands. After a moment, and to break some of the tension, he asked the bear, “Have you ever sniffed a dwarf who has washed before?”

The bear snorted in a retort.

Then they saw them. Six creatures shaped like sons of Adam, but black as pitch and misshapen emerged from the western trees of the woods close to the forest path but still back off the path in the bushy brush. They were large and powerfully built, wielded crude, iron weapons, and wore even cruder pieces of misfitting armor which looked as though it could have been looted from a battlefield. Their faces were marked with white paint in the shape of a hand. Fangs could be seen protruding at odd angles from the lips of two of them. A third appeared to have had its eye gouged out at some point in the recent past. Three of them carried quivers full of thick black arrows, and even heavier bows that anyone but a minotaur might struggle to draw.

The orcs appeared to not have seen the patrol as of yet. One of them, the largest one, shouted something in a foul, black speech to the others which the Narnians did not understand, gesturing south and east from where they were. Its fellows replied in the same language with more gestures, waving their hands wildly as though in disagreement. The first one then snorted, and suddenly backhanded both of those that had argued with it so hard that they fell backwards, moonlight reflecting off of dribbles of black blood emanating from their mouths. Wicked, evil looking sword pointed down at their throats, the first repeated his order along with what sounded in tone like a deadly threat.

The Narnian patrol didn’t make a sound as they observed them for those few moments. They had never seen such a wicked looking race in their lives. Even those races which had sided with the White Witch had some redeeming qualities to them; the dwarves their craftsmanship, the minotaurs their loyalty, the wolves their dedication to their families, and so forth. But these things called “orcs”, whatever they might have been, felt twisted and unnatural to the world. Like some nightmare version of humans had been given a physical form and allowed to roam the world. What was clear about them was that it was no large invasion force, but another scouting party like those that had been described as having been seen in recent days.

The fauns raised their shields and stood in front of their comrades protectively, well aware of the bows the orcs carried, and having been briefed on the damage they could do. The centaur readied himself to charge if necessary as did the bear. They did not want to be the ones to instigate combat, but they wanted to be ready for it should the orcs do so.

Then the large one spotted them through the trees and barked in his dark language to the others who immediately scrambled for their bows. The orc whom they presumed to be their leader barked more of what sounded like orders, and those with bows began to let arrows fly at the patrol.

The first barbed shaft slammed into the shields of the fauns and broke through the metal and wood so that the sharp poisoned heads were exposed to the faun’s flesh but were stopped nonetheless. Keeping their damaged shields raised so as to continue to block the onslaught, the fauns advanced at a run into the brush, and the centaur, letting out a battle cry, “FOR NARNIA!!!” charged into the enemy party bringing his heavy two handed blade down on the first archer’s head, cleaving it’s misshapen features in twain. The bear followed suit, though younger and more inexperienced with warfare than those he patrolled with. He understood quickly that the orcs did not mean to capture or merely defeat, but to murder them where they stood. His brought his huge frame down on one orc, crushing its chest with a single swipe of his paw, roaring his challenge even as the orcs planted two of their arrows in his side as he did so before turning to meet another ax wielding fiend.

The leader of the orcs met the centaur’s claymore blow for blow with his own blade. The foul creature proved neither inexperienced nor untrained with a blade, and the centaur felt himself driven back even as he fought to land blows with his blade and his hooves which kicked at the thing with force enough to smash bone even through armor. The centaur could sense no fear from the orc in the combat, but only a relishing of the fight and a thirst for the centaur’s blood to flow.

The two fauns engaged with the remaining two orcs who had given up their bows at close range and drew their own swords, hacking and slashing at the fauns’ damaged shields. The fauns fought back hard, bashing the orcs in the face and chest with their shields and taking advantage of the momentary stunning to press their lethal attacks. But to their surprise, the orcs proved to be more competent with their weapons than they had anticipated.

The bear swiped at his own opponent again and again, charging and mauling, and taking advantage of any opening he could. But the poison on the arrowheads was doing its work, and he could feel his movements slowing. The orc’s blade had made contact several times against his own fur, and he was bleeding from many gashes.

They fought hard, but the orcs appeared to be getting the upper hand, and the Narnians were tiring. The centaur was not young, and neither were the fauns. All had fought in the battle for Narnia decades ago, and knew the craft of war, but they soon realized they were outmatched by these new demons who appeared to come to that understanding too, and grinned evilly at the situation.

Then one of the orcs delivered a blow to the faun’s shield which shattered it and forced him backwards onto the ground hard, only to follow it up with a blow with its ax that would certainly have been the end of the valiant soldier fighting for his land.

Suddenly, a sound like a woman’s scream made up of the rustling of leaves and branches echoed around them, and the word formed that was heard in the scream was, “NOOO!!!”

Just as the orc was to deliver the blow, it found something grip its arm tightly like a serpent coils around its prey. The next thing the orc knew, its arm was nearly yanked from its mounting in its shoulder as the orc was dragged down towards the earth violently until it felt its bones snap and crumble under the force of being pulled into the resistant earth itself. The orc let out a vicious, and violent scream of pain until it was silenced by the loss of all the air from lungs in a chest which was no longer intact.

Around the combatants, the forest floor itself seemed to come alive with the roots of the very trees lashing out at the orcs from beneath, and the branches of the trees striking them with heavy blows from above. The dryads, the spirits of the trees around them had overcome their shock and fear at what was happening, and had joined the fight, and one dryad in particular acted with a special and visceral vengeance against the orc that had threatened the life of the faun who was more than just her friend.

The leader of the orcs, occupied with what he had believed would soon be his kill did not notice in the darkness the change in his surroundings until it was too late. Just as he saw a new opening and was bringing his own blade to bear to remove the centaur’s mannish half from his equine, savoring the thought of feasting on both soon, he felt himself jerked back and up into the air by a thick root wrapping around his muscular waist, his crude sword falling from his grasp. Before he realized what was happening, his body was being slammed into the forest floor hard and repeatedly until that warrior’s body went limp.

When the dryads were done with them, all that remained of the orcs, all that was visible, were severed limbs and pieces of blackened flesh and pools of oily blood among the fallen leaves and rocks.

Shaken but grateful, the faun called out to the dryad who delivered him from the killing blow, “My love! Words cannot express our gratitude!”

The dryad responded, the spirit of the tree forming a lovely woman’s face in her leaves to speak with him, concern and care rustling through them, “Did the evil demon hurt you, my love?”

“I am well! But the bear is gravely wounded! Send for a healer, please! And send a message through your sisters about this incursion! Cair Paravel must know!” The faun told her.

“At once!” She responded, and the next thing which they knew was the woods around them coming alive with the chatter of the dryads through the trees as the message was passed among the trees across Narnia faster than horses could run, or perhaps even birds could fly.

* * *

The wind rushed past Sir Eric’s face, biting it just a bit harder than it did when he rode his horse at full gallop. But it was no horse which now bore him aloft among the clouds. His mount was golden in color from wingtip to wingtip, easily as large as a thoroughbred, with the head and forelegs of an eagle and the hindquarters of a great cat like a lion. The great griffin wore no saddle, and to have placed one on him, the knight had come to understand, would have been beneath his dignity. The griffin, who was introduced to him as Fleetfeather, agreed to bear him home to Gondor of his own accord and free will. King Edmond had politely inquired of the griffins if one might be willing to make the journey west, but the choice was left to the majestic creatures themselves. They were talking animals, and free citizens of that kingdom worthy of respect.

With what seemed like no effort at all, the griffin had appeared to clear half of his country within a few very short hours of departing from Cair Paravel on the coastline. The knight watched the landscape speed by at a great distance beneath them at what seemed like many times faster than any horse could ever run. The sight was mesmerizing to him as he watched, and he began to consider that there was no end to the amount of wonders to be found in that land. He wondered indeed if his lady wife or children, or anyone for that matter, would believe the tale which he now had to tell of the week he spent in the magical land to the far east where animals talked and four siblings ruled together at the pleasure of a divine lion. He could still hardly believe it himself.

But home itself would have to wait as his course was not for his own lands in Belfalas, but the upper tier of the white city of Minas Tirith where he was certain that the Steward of Gondor, Lord Denethor was still waiting for the news his company had sacrificed so much to gather. The message High King Peter had given him to relay to the Steward was a simple one, “You are not alone. You have friends in the east. Mordor has made an enemy of Narnia.”

Much had happened in that week, and none of it was what he would have wished on those gentle and noble people. As he had feared, more orcs had crossed their western borders and lives had been lost. Only that morning before he had left, he had learned of the death of a talking bear that had succumbed to the poisons of the orcish arrows. Sir Eric had learned the bear’s name had been Bristlefur, and he had been survived by his elderly mother, and younger brother and sister. It had not occurred to him before that week to mourn the death of a beast like a bear, but he could not help but mourn this one having heard of his courage in combat against the scouts from Mordor. He found himself thinking this was a bear he would like to have known. It was a thought that would have been silly to him only a little more than a week before. But not now.

There were more deaths reported which he had been present to learn of. High King Peter had ordered the formation of an army, and regular patrols along the western border. In the last two days alone, there had been no less than four skirmishes between Narnian patrols and the orcs. Three were able to rout the fiends, one was not. More than this, there had been reports of Narnians disappearing with no trace but drops of scarlet blood along the western woods. Sir Eric shuddered to think what might have happened to them. Orcs were not known to be choosy about their meat.

“Tell me whatever you can about these ‘orcs,’ please, Sir Eric.” The High King had asked him the day before after receiving the new reports from the west. “What they are, where they come from, what hurts them. Anything which we might be able to use to understand our enemy.”

They had been standing in an open portico overlooking the beach. The knight’s own clothing and mail had been returned to him cleaned, repaired, and looking better than they had when he had left home in them. He wore the surcoat of Gondor as the Narnian ruler addressed him. The elder king, perhaps ten years his senior, was visibly distraught at the reports of losses of his people, regardless of their race. The report of the death of the young bear Bristlefur had put tears into the king’s eyes. Never before had he seen such concern or love of a monarch for his people, all his people. He had put both his hands against the stone railing as he looked east across the water, almost as if pleading with the horizon.

The knight tried to remember everything he could for the High King. “I will tell you what I know, your majesty.”

“Please.” Peter responded.

“Their people were elves once, but they had been taken and tortured in mind and body until they were irredeemably twisted by an ancient evil power known as Morgoth thousands of years ago, long before humans walked this land or any land. I don’t know how they are bred now, but that is what I was taught about them. They have always been the servants and soldiers of evil. Light of any kind, but especially that of the divine, appears to frighten and even harm them. Light and things blessed by the valar or made by the elves. Until the week before, I had never seen orcs dare to march in open sunlight during the day.”

“You have mentioned these ‘elves’ before. Who or what are they?” the king asked. “We have no such people here in Narnia, or anywhere that I have seen.”

“The loremasters say they are the firstborn of Eru. The first to be awakened.” The knight replied. “At the dawn of this world, before man was awakened, they came from Valinor in the far west across the sea to Middle Earth and built kingdoms and grand cities. They are a tall, handsome and pretty people, fair skinned, and most are fair haired. They look much like us, but are more refined and have long pointed ears. From what I know, they are immortal unless they fall in battle. There are some living, as I have heard, who still remember the time before our people walked the land. They carry the special favor of Eru and the valar. Those few I have met in my country have all been good and just, though they are becoming much fewer in number in Middle Earth. Many now are choosing to abandon their cities and settlements and return to their ancient homelands in the far west across the sea.”

“So they would not be of help to you or to us? They have chosen to abandon the fight against these monstrous reflections of themselves.” The king asked.

“I can’t say for certain, your majesty.” He replied. “I know it was not always so. During the ancient war against Sauron, it was the elves who stood by men. They fought and died alongside us. But children are rare among them, and treasured, and every death of an elf hurts their numbers far more than it hurts ours, I’m sorry to say. They may just not have the strength of numbers to stand against the darkness any longer.”

“And yet, by your word, there seems to be no end to their twisted kin.” Peter observed.

“That is unfortunately so, your majesty.” The knight confirmed for him.

“They come from Mordor, you said?” The High King asked. “Then there must be orc towns, settlements, perhaps even women and children one would think. They cannot just pop out of the ground on a whim. All creatures have an origin, parents, progenitors.”

“I don’t know, your majesty. In truth, I just don’t know. My company never made it so far into that desolate land to discover the answer to that question, but skirted the foot of the southern mountains around it so as to avoid large patrols. For all I know, they are now birthed from dark sorcery at Sauron’s whim.” Sir Eric replied.

“But they can be killed.” The king then said.

“They can be killed, yes your majesty.” The knight confirmed for him.

“You said elvish and holy things cause harm to them? That light itself causes them discomfort and pain?” The king asked again. “Perhaps that is something we can use to our advantage. Aslan himself created this land. It is special, blessed by him, and dedicated to him. One might even call it holy to Aslan.”

“Of what little I have seen and experienced, you would receive no argument on that count from me, your majesty.” Sir Eric replied, though he felt a sense that the king had not meant his remarks towards the knight, but was directing them eastwards across the sea as he continued to stare at it for several moments more.

Then, after those moments had passed, High King Peter stood up straight and faced the knight directly.

“You said before that Mordor’s eastern flank was practically unguarded. That this Sauron’s attention was focused on the west and did not appear to be concerned with an attack from the east. Did I hear this right.” The king asked. “Do you believe this still might be the case?”

“Once again, I don’t know, your majesty.” Sir Eric answered honestly. “It is apparent that they now know that this land is here, and they are scouting it where they can. If I were to guess, they are probably still trying to assess if it is any kind of a threat, or even another exploitable resource. I highly doubt Sauron would commit any serious resources to a real invasion eastwards until he has brought Gondor and all of Middle Earth under his heel.”

“Are you saying these skirmishes are their way of toying with us? Feeling us out?” Peter asked.

“That would be how I would read it, for now at least, your majesty.” The night responded.

Sir Eric thought back through that conversation with the Narnian King, turning it over and over in his mind as he flew through the skies on Fleetfeather’s back. The High King had not revealed his full mind to the knight with his questions, but Sir Eric thought he could guess what moves the ruler was contemplating against this fresh threat.

The Narnian landscape continued to speed by, and the griffin seemed tireless as he flew onwards towards the west. It had concerned Sir Eric that the creature had not thought to land and rest for a time. He had inquired of Fleetfeather if he should like to land somewhere and rest for a bit before continuing. He found himself having to shout his question though with the rush of the wind around him making such a noise.

“No! Thank you! I’m quite fine! I shouldn’t need to land for several more hours I would think! I expect we’ll be over the wasteland by then! Nasty place, but there should be someplace we can make camp for a short time!” Fleetfeather responded in a friendly manner, touched by the human’s concern. And so they flew onwards.

The morning turned into mid-day, and the mid-day became the afternoon when the horizon before them changed from the bright greens of forest and blues of rivers and lakes to the bleak grays and tans of the wasteland beyond Narnia. The border itself, marked by a wall of trees and growth was even more stark from that altitude as Sir Eric observed it than when he had first seen it as he was running for his life. From that altitude, they could also just make out the fetid and twisted landscape of Mordor in the distance which began beyond the wasteland, and the mountains which guarded its northern and southern borders.

“Ugh!” Fleetfeather squawked his displeasure at the sight, his eagle’s eyes being much sharper than the humans. “What a foul land that is! How could anyone want to live in such an awful place!?”

Sir Eric had no answer for him to that question. He returned his attention to the passing ground beneath them and noted where they crossed from the green and growing land of Narnia to the desert beyond it, expecting to see nothing but rock, sand, and dead wastes. It was no wonder to him upon seeing the sight why no one had thought to travel farther east from his lands with both Mordor and the desert acting as a natural barrier. What fool would think there was a paradise just a few days journey beyond it?

And then he caught sight of things which made his stomach tighten and his heart quicken with anxiety.

“Fleetfeather! Do you see them, my friend?!” He called to the griffin. “Are those trebuchets they are hauling?!”

“I do!” The griffin called back. “Unfortunately better than you! There must be a hundred of them down there! And no, I see no trebuchets, but carts laden with saws, axes, and other implements for turning trees into boards and planks! They look like lumberjacks sent to harvest wood!”

“Turn around!” Sir Eric told him. “Please! We need to see what they are up to!”

Fleetfeather didn’t argue, but gracefully banked and turned, careful to keep his rider upright and stable. He descended only a little lower as he made a second pass. On that pass, the knight observed camps of orcs, marked by their campfires and tents, which had already been set up at the edge of Narnia’s forested border. Spits had been erected over the fires, and the remains of beasts could be seen on them. His stomach turned to the point of nearly vomiting when he realized that one of the roasts on a spit had only two legs.

Sir Eric considered the sight carefully. The Narnians beyond the woods had no idea, and every creature, even every tree was of importance to them as a citizen it seemed. He was right in his assessment, he realized. The orcs had been scouting, and they decided that Narnia was less of a threat than a valuable resource for wood, and, to his horror, food for their monstrous mouths.

“We must return to Cair Paravel! Can you make it that far, my friend?!” Sir Eric called out to the griffin.

“What of getting you back to your own country?!” Fleetfeather questioned.

“This cannot wait! Your people don’t know what’s coming! They’ll strip the western woods bare and kill every tree from north to south!” The knight returned. “Cair Paravel must be told while there’s still time!”

The griffin considered the seriousness of their situation and then replied, “I can’t fly that much farther today! But I know of a place not far beyond the border where we can rest safely and perhaps send a message through the dryads to the kings and queens!”

“Let’s go then!” The knight answered, thinking, I won’t be responsible for more Narnian lives if I can help it.


	4. Chapter 4

It was a sight that neither Peter nor Edmond had seen for years, and had hoped they would never have to see again. They were making a visitation to the recruitment and training camp which had been set up on the other side of the Great River about two days hard ride from Cair Paravel, and an equal distance from the western woods where all the skirmishes had so far taken place. They had set out to inspect the military camp the same morning in which the knight of the west had departed on the back of the Narnian griffin, Fleetfeather.

They had only been informed of the knight’s reversal of course and the urgent intelligence on their mutual enemy’s movements while on the trail. The dryads had carried the message directly to them, delivering it even as they set up camp for the night. It was not welcome news and they had spent a sleepless night discussing how to stop Mordor’s servants before any of the wakened trees were harmed, or more Narnians lost to their cooking fires. The very thought of this last sickened them to where they couldn’t themselves eat.

Tents had been arranged according to companies and regiments. Centaurs, fauns, and talking animals all drilled to the sound of a sergeant’s shouting, many learning how to use a sword or a bow for the first time in their lives. Weapons were easily distributed enough, but coats of mail, breastplates, shields, greaves, and other pieces of armor such as they had were distributed to each new recruit as they were able to fit. The dwarf made arms were of good quality, but the dwarves could only accommodate so many body types. Leopards could not wear steel breastplates made for fauns, nor beavers chain mail suited for centaurs. But they made it work as best they could.

The kings of Narnia had spent the earlier part of the day going over the recruitment numbers. It was no surprise to either of the sons of Adam that so many had answered the call when it was sent out. Narnians might not be a warlike people, but there was not doubting their courage. Instead, the surprise came in all those races who answered whom they had not expected. While there had been no hostilities between those peoples who had supported the Witch in battle since that time, there had been no love lost between Cair Paravel and them either. And yet, among the new recruits could be seen minotaurs, wolves, even ogres. And just that morning the kings had been introduced to the emissary of the dwarves who had brought the newly forged weapons and armor himself, along with another surprise.

The dwarf Fizzlebeard had been going over accounts with the kings in the later part of the day. He had arrived there himself the day before them with cartloads of the requested arms from the dwarvish mines and strongholds in the northern mountains. The three of them had seated themselves at a table in the kings’ tent seeing to the lists of what was brought and tallying the inevitable payments from the royal treasury for it all. The cost as it was tallied was enormous, but, for what was delivered and the speed with which it came, the dwarves could not be said to be cheating them, at least not this time. Over twenty thousand pieces of fine weapons and armor had been drawn from the dwarves own armories and more were being fashioned as they spoke.

“You need not worry about full repayment yet.” Fizzlebeard had told them. “And my people are open to discussing other means of payment beyond gold and silver. We know your wealth is not in precious metals.” The dwarf chuckled at this. “Perhaps we can work something out for lumber,” then realizing what he was suggesting he quickly and smoothly followed it up with, “from non-wakened trees of course. We also would be amenable to carts of fresh fruits, vegetables, things of this nature.”

King Edmond studied the dwarf, suspicious of him. “That’s generous of your people, considering we have not always been on the best of terms.” He said in response, wary of the dwarf’s angle. The generosity of dwarves usually came with strings.

“Indeed. But the past is the past, now isn’t it?” Fizzlebeard answered him, sitting back in his chair. A mug of ale had been sitting on the table. He grabbed it and held it in the one hand while stroking his belt length gray and black beard braided with bronze and gold rings with the other. “And as you may be aware, trees and crops don’t grow well underneath mountains, no matter how grand the halls may be. Dwarves need to eat and drink just as your kind do.”

“I suppose they do.” Edmond admitted as he watched the dwarf take a long draught of his beverage.

The dwarf drained the mug and set it roughly back on the heavy table. “Narnia is our home as much as it is yours, your majesties.” He told them. “I daresay even more so as we have been here for far longer than yourselves.”

Peter and Edmond made no attempt to respond to this comment, regardless of the insinuation. The dwarves they had known were never so amiable as Fizzlebeard was being now, and so they held their tongues and let him continue.

“Aye, we sided with the White Witch during the hundred years winter and during the war. She treated us well enough, and better than the kings and queens before her, I daresay.” Fizzlebeard told them, the ale beginning to loosen his tongue just a little more. Then seeing their confused looks, he went on even more. “You lot forget how long we dwarves live. I just had my hundred and eightieth birthday a month ago! I’d seen no less than two monarchs on the throne before the White Witch came to power. Sons of Adam and daughters of Eve might be the rightful rulers, I suppose that’s fair enough, but they didn’t always treat everyone so fairly, now did they? The queen before Jadis? Bah! Swanwhite spent most of her days looking at any reflection of herself she could find, the rest of the kingdom be damned! Bet no badger or beaver every told you lot that, did they? And where was Aslan? It had been so long since he’d graced Narnia with his presence, most of us dwarves thought he was just a myth meant to keep the pretty queen in power. Never really expected him to return, much less for you four to really show up out of the cold one day.”

“And now?” The high king asked. The dwarf’s words stung, but they were honest, and Peter could respect that honesty. The truth was, the picture which had been painted for him of the time before the White Witch had been a rosy one, but he didn’t really know that much about it, or any of the human kings and queens that preceded himself and his siblings.

“Well, you lot have kept your distance,” the dwarf went on, “but you’ve at least been fair with us, like you have with the others that sided with the Witch. You declared amnesty, and kept your word in not trying to punish us for it. Cair Paravel’s been a good trading partner those times we’ve needed each other, and you’ve always made good on payment. That’s not gone unnoticed by those under the mountains. You’re not the Witch, but you’re not another four Swanwhites either, and that’s a good thing as my people see it. What I’m trying to say is Narnia’s doing well, and so are we under your rule. The dwarven council doesn’t want anything to threaten that. Peace is good for everyone, and if this new enemy is as bad as we’ve been told...”

“It is. Worse even as we’re still learning.” Edmond told him.

“Well then, I suppose our next contributions will be put to good use.” Fizzlebeard replied thoughtfully.

“What contributions? We only requested weapons and armor. you’ve already fulfilled that.” High King Peter told him, puzzled at what the dwarf was getting at.

“Aye we did at that, and then some, but we want to make sure those orc bastards or whatever they’re called are ne’er allowed to set so much as one foot in our country again. Not one blasted foot.” The dwarf replied. “We can’t keep up our warm relations with you and these fauns and centaurs and what not if you’re all dead, now can we?”

Both kings noted the dwarf’s intended inclusion of everyone present, themselves as well, in his use of the word our. There was no mistake, there was a sense of unity among the races of Narnia against a common enemy which hadn’t been present before.

“So what then is this contribution?” Edmond asked.

The dwarf smiled and stretched out his hands magnanimously as he said, “Three thousand of our best fighters, your majesties. They’re on the march and will be here by noon tomorrow. In addition, they’re bringing with them some weapons those orcs might not be expecting, if you use them right that is. I wouldn’t want any Narnians nearby when you do.”

“What kind of weapons?” Peter asked, truly intrigued now.

“Well, not every kind of rock and stone can be easily moved by ax or pick alone mind you.” The dwarf said. “It’s a carefully guarded secret with my people, but we’ve developed a kind of powder that, when you put a flame to it, explodes. BOOM!!” He added for emphasis.

“How does that help us?” Edmond asked.

“There were many dwarves there at the battle when the witch fell. It was a clever thing you did then using the griffins and eagles to drop boulders and rocks on our forces where we couldn’t touch them. After the fact, we kept it in mind, and turned it around and around trying to think how we might have done it better.” The dwarf told him.

“You mean how to kill more people.” Peter said, understanding what he was driving at. Disturbing images from past memories flashed through his mind again from a time long, long before of explosions and debris flying everywhere.

“Aye, precisely that.” The dwarf answered. “We figured out how to trigger the blasting powder from an impact and put it into metal casings. You drop these on the orcs, and instead of taking one or two of them like with the rocks, it’ll take ten or twenty close by. Just make sure to keep any Narnians clear until after the griffins and raptors have finished their work. And use them sparingly. They’re costly to build. Also, I’d not go tossing them around for fun either. They’re a bit sensitive, if you know what I mean.”

“We do, actually.” The high king replied, he then turned his attention to the matter of cost. “How much more do you want for the troops and these new weapons?”

The dwarf then did something decidedly un-dwarflike and held up his hands as if in protest. “Nothing, your majesties. Consider it a donation of our good will in hopes of more and better trade.”

Both brothers raised their eyebrows and looked at each other in surprise. Recovering quickly, the high king spoke first, “Tell your people they have our deepest gratitude, and much to look forward to when this business is all done with.”

The dwarf nodded and smiled. It was a sincere smile, and one which the kings could share with him.

Then a steward, a young faun wearing a chain mail shirt not much older than they had been upon arriving in Narnia, came into the royal tent to address the two kings. “Your majesties, there is a knight, a son of Adam, who is requesting an audience.”

“Of course. We’ll see him as soon as our business with Fizzlebeard is concluded.” King Edmond told the steward, first looking for unspoken confirmation from his brother who nodded his assent.

Three thousand more troops. Peter thought to himself as the steward was dismissed to relay his message. It was an encouragement to say the least, but as he did the maths in his head, that only brought their number up to a little over twenty thousand archers, foot soldiers, and centaur cavalry, not including the patrols that were already deployed to the western border. With the addition of King Lune’s men, that would add another four thousand. It was all Archenland could spare having to guard against Calormene treachery from the south. There had been no response from the giants in the north, and he had expected none. They didn’t recognize Narnian sovereignty, and didn’t usually care about what happened to their more southerly neighbors.

Would it be enough to defend Narnia? Twenty four thousand? Maybe, for a time. He thought considering what the knight told him of his people’s history with Mordor. We could deal with the laborers he warned us of. But if Mordor decides to turn east, and the knight’s words about their numbers seeming endless are even partially true… 

The dwarf made his gestures of politeness and departed from the tent even as Peter’s mind had already turned elsewhere from trade and payment of goods and services rendered. After a few minutes, a recently familiar face with dark blond hair and new beard growth entered the tent to stand before the kings of Narnia. He looked somewhat disheveled, and there were circles under his eyes as though he had little sleep for the past few days. As much as Peter and Edmond knew, that much was true.

Remembering himself and seeing the two kings still seated at the table, the knight dropped to one knee and bowed before them, waiting for them to give him leave to rise.

“Rise, Sir Eric. There’s no need for such formality here among friends and soldiers in an army tent.” The high king told him.

The knight did as he was bid and rose to his feet once more saying, “As you wish, your majesties.”

“Come, sit down here at the table. You look dreadful.” Edmond told him, then called for some wine and what food could be spared to be brought to all three of them for their supper. Though their rank might have permitted it surely, they had not even thought of taking anything more rich for their meal than what the rest of the soldiers in the camp would sup on.

“I suppose I do, King Edmond.” the knight agreed. “Fleetfeather and I have been running the borderlands and the wastelands since we left Cair Paravel to gain a better picture of Mordor’s encroachment.

“You have our sincerest thanks for that, sir knight.” The high king told him. “Had you not thought to turn back and warn us instead of continuing home, we would have been caught completely unawares when the first trees started to fall. We are deeply in your debt. What have you learned since?”

The steward returned with steaming hot bowls of stew and three metal goblets of wine, placing them before each of the men seated at the table, starting with King Peter. The king thanked him and then he was dismissed when all were served. Edmond and Sir Eric held their spoons our of deference until Peter took up his and began to eat, and then hungrily dug in themselves. The knight spoke between spoonfuls.

“The orcs are nearly ready with their lumbermills to begin harvesting the western wood within the next two days.” The knight told them. “Fleetfeather and I counted close to a thousand orcs total spread across the border from north to south with a supply train stretching back towards Mordor. What’s more, the sun no longer shines over the wasteland. As the orcs advance from the west, dark clouds go before them like a rainstorm that never drops, blocking out the sunlight and leaving the day there dim and gray. It stretches from north to south, and westwards toward the mountains, pouring out of Mordor like steam from a kettle.”

Remembering what Sir Eric had told him about the orcs and their aversion to light the high king observed, “So our advantage in the sunlight will be gone, and they are free to send any of their troops they want whenever they want.”

“That is how I read the situation too, yes, your majesty. I’m sorry to say.” Sir Eric confirmed. “But I can report that so far they have not sent a force of any significant size, and no machines of war. Neither Fleetfeather nor I believe they consider you a serious military threat for the moment.”

Peter took another bite of his food and chewed on the hunks of potato, meat, and vegetables just as he chewed on the knight’s words. When he had swallowed, he remarked carefully, “They may be right about that.”

“What does your majesty mean?” Sir Eric asked.

“Yes, Peter, what are you saying?” King Edmond also asked.

“You’ve seen the numbers yourself, Ed.” Peter told him. “At most, we’ll have twenty four hundred troops in total. It’s enough perhaps to deal with these lumberjacks, or even a legion or two from the west should they choose to invade. But...” He trailed off, gesturing towards the knight.

“But?” Edmond asked, looking towards the knight. “Surely it is no small congregation we have assembled here. Twenty four thousand troops would be enough to make even Calormen tremble should they see us coming!”

The knight understood the high king’s concern. He had seen the numbers of Mordor’s hosts himself, and even then not the full might of them but only a small part along the borders. He had no illusions of how many troops Mordor could field if it so chose.

“I do not know the size or strength of this Calormen of which you speak, your majesty, but I have seen hosts of orcs too numerous to even begin to count marching across the outskirts of the black lands just in their patrols alone. If I were to put a number to the forces Sauron could commit to the field, it would be in the hundreds of thousands, and this not counting those remaining behind to watch over their own.” The knight told him.

“So then you’re saying we have no chance no matter what?” Edmond questioned in disbelief. “We have no hope at all?”

“I have to believe there is always a chance, that there is always a hope of victory, your majesty.” Sir Eric replied, his tone serious and sincere. “If I did not, I should surrender my lands, my family, and my life right here and now, and yet I will not. I will fight on against this filthy darkness. I should be dead now except for the hope that somehow I would survive, and whatever deity there might be, whether it be Eru or Aslan or some unnamed God of whom I have not yet heard, heard that hope and kept its flame kindled. It was against hope that I should find refuge and friends here in the east, and yet here you are.”

“Every Narnian in this camp will fight to the last breath for our land. The courage of Narnians is our greatest advantage.” The high king said, ingesting the knight’s words. “The dark lord will be made to pay for every inch he tries to take. Even the lowliest mouse will fight like the lion in defense of his country. Of this we can be assured.”

“I do not doubt it. It struck me as I thought I saw several mice upon arrival carrying tiny sabers on their hips through the camp. The sight astounded me in this land in which my astonishment never ceases.” Sir Eric mused in reply.

Peter also had the thoughts of the mice in the camp on his mind, as well as the leopards, bears, fauns, and minotaurs. No, there was no doubting their hearts. But courage alone could not always make up the deficit in numbers on the battlefield. The knight had said the lumberjacks could begin within days, hours even now. They had to field their troops if they were to save lives, but in so doing, they would draw the ire of a force maybe ten times their own size or more. What then?

And it would be his responsibility to give the order.

Silently, he looked to the east once more, and without words cried out as his brother and the knight of Gondor continued to speak together, Aslan, help us! Grant us your guidance!

* * *  
Peter could not sleep that night in his tent in the military camp. He lay awake on his cot going over those conversations and figures again and again. Across from him his brother appeared to be sleeping, though fitfully. No doubt having nightmares akin to his own waking thoughts. Wars were ugly business for any involved in them. Images of orcs, black arrows, troop numbers, and the scenes of Narnians dying bravely in battle flashed through his mind again and again. He did not fear combat, or risking his own life to defend his people or this land. But he did not want to place his people into harm’s way if he did not have to. The losses that they knew of which they had already incurred through kidnappings and raids into the western woods over the past week totaled into the hundreds. Narnian citizens taken to be what? Roasted on a spit? Torn to pieces and thrown into a stew? Or perhaps eaten raw as he did not know if the evil fiends even cooked their meat. This was horrifying knowledge enough. But that figure paled in comparison to the number of casualties they would incur if he ordered their march beyond the western border and into the wasteland. There was no doubt they would be able to dispatch those orcs already there. But then what? How far would they need go until Narnia was safe, and could they really ensure that? Would their sacrifices stand for something if they did, or would they all be destroyed and leave their kingdom defenseless at the last?

After lying awake for hours, Peter was stiff and sore in his cot. He sat up, put on his boots, and strode outside into the fresh, fragrant Narnian night air. Normally it would be invigorating to him, but his cares and worries wore him down so that at best he was only a little less worn out than when he first lay down. There was a beaver and a hare in small chain shirts that nevertheless seemed too big for them standing guard at the entry to his tent, halberds in hand. Both snapped to attention as he emerged from it.

“My king, is something amiss?” The hare asked, whiskers twitching and long ears turning this way and that to detect even the slightest hint of trouble, looking for all the world as if he was ready to sound the alarm and wake the whole camp because his high king could not sleep.

“No more than usual, friend.” Peter replied. “Peace. I only desire to take a walk and clear my head.”

“Do you wish for an escort, your majesty?” The beaver asked, ready to follow him at a mere gesture.

“No, thank you. I wish to walk alone tonight.” The high king told him, both appreciative of the gesture, and letting it add to his deep melancholy of decisions and responsibility. Both he and the hare would follow their kings and queens into hell itself should he ask it, and would do so without the slightest hesitation, he knew. How close that very request might come disturbed the son of Adam greatly.

“As you wish, your majesty.” The beaver stood down and bowed, and the hare followed suit, though their faces displayed uncomfortable concern for him still, worry that they might lose sight of whom they were charged with protecting.

“I’ll not stray far, I promise.” Peter then reassured them.

“Very good, your majesty.” The hare replied, relief showing in his eyes.

The orcs had not strayed yet this deep into Narnian territory, but everyone was alert and wary in this crisis, and many were scared having heard the reports of loved ones disappearing. Perhaps the hare had visions in his own mind of his king turning on an orc spit somewhere because he hadn’t done his job properly. It was a touching concern and expression of love which was not lost on the high king of Narnia.

Peter moved off and through the camp, passing the night watch guards occasionally and having nearly identical conversations with them as he did with the guards at his tent. The touching concern of each only added more weight to his mind as to sending them into battle. He was not a king or general whose troops were only faceless numbers to him. While he did not know all Narnians personally, as strange as it might sound, he felt a father to them all, responsible for them all as though they were his very own children. He had taken Bristlefur the bear’s death as personally as if it had been one of his own.

He had never had children of his own otherwise. Neither he nor his brother or sisters had ever married. There had been occasional romances in his youth, but never improper or inappropriate. There had been a water nymph, a naiad with whom he had shared an affection. She had been his “first love” so to speak, and still spoke to him as a dear friend to this day even when they both knew nothing more could come of it. Later in life there had been the daughter of a knight of Archenland with whom he had struck up a friendship. She was smart, pretty, and everything one might hope for in a princess-consort for the high king. But always his first responsibility had been to Narnia and the execution of Aslan’s will therein. His duty had come before his happiness in this respect, and would be made to come before any wife or family. He did not feel he could put any woman or child into that position, or even possibly the position of having to see him off to a war from which he might not return as… as his own father had done.

He walked from the center of the camp where the royal tents were out towards the periphery, yet still remaining in sight of his guards as he promised. The middle aged man reached the outer tents and looked out upon the open grassy fields beyond it to the east where the Great River lay, and much further where lay the battlefield on which he first fought as king. Not terribly far to the north lay the ruins of the White Witch’s castle, and to the west, the woods to where the army of Narnia would be fielded and tested against powers of darkness perhaps the likes of which none of them had ever seen.

He had been younger then in the battle against the Witch. Everyone in Aslan’s army knew the stakes and what they were up against. Neither he nor his brother or sisters had purposefully kept anything from those that answered the call to serve, but he was certain they did not know the extent or power of the enemy they faced. 

Would they have come if they did? Probably. He decided. They are Narnian.

As he looked out over the fields into the night, a large shape emerged in the darkness on the wild grasses. The moon was only at half that night, and he could not see the shape as clearly. It was still at some distance from the camp. He looked to the watchmen nearby who had their own eyes turned outwards toward it, but either they did not see it, or it did not give them any cause for alarm regardless. Turning his attention back to it, the shape materialized more clearly.

It was the form of a huge male lion, and he beckoned with a turn of his head for the high king to follow.

“I am going out there to investigate something. I won’t go far.” He informed the guards, two centaurs who themselves then began to voice their concerns again as before. “I shouldn’t go out of sight I should think. If I need help, I will shout.”

Uneasy with this, there was protest and alarm in their eyes as well, but the high king would not be stopped. He marched out onto the grassy field beyond the camp where the lion waited patiently. As he reached him, recognizing the True King of Narnia, he took a knee before him and waited.

“Rise, son of Adam.” Aslan told him. “Rise, and walk with me. The night is pleasant, and we have much to discuss.”

Peter did as he was bade, and came to heel at Aslan’s side as they walked, not away from the camp, nor too it, but in a parallel path to its side so the high king would not be made to break his word.

“You know the situation, Aslan?” Peter asked, recognizing the silliness of the question even as he spoke it.

Aslan betrayed no irritation or slight, but simply responded with a gentle tone, “I do.”

“I called to you, Aslan. I had not expected a crisis of this kind.” Peter began. “Narnian lives have already been lost, and I fear I may have already failed you in this, and may still continue to fail you no matter what decisions we make. I would know your mind on this if you would.”

Aslan smiled and replied, “I heard you calling, my son, and I am here now. You have not failed. You, your brother, and your sisters have done exactly what I wanted and ruled Narnia well, neither more nor less. This is not failure.”

“We face a war from an enemy we know almost nothing about. Aslan, I must know, do we dispatch those on our borders, but hold our lines here and defend Narnia until they overwhelm us with their numbers as Gondor has, or should we press our attack westwards and risk a quicker annihilation in their land? I do not see any good options with which I have been presented.” The king asked, pouring out his worries and cares upon his own sovereign lord. “In either case, good Narnians will die, and my heart breaks for the thought.”

“As does mine.” The Great Lion responded, a grieved expression on his face. “Narnia is my special possession. It is the apple of my eye in this world, and it grieves me when any of my people are made to suffer.”

Peter then asked, “So what do we do then?”

“Peter, this is a hard truth, but it is the burden of kings to wage war and ask their subjects to risk their lives, and yes die if need be so that others might live.” Aslan told him. “They feel for them, memorize their names, and lose sleep at night over their deaths. You are no less a king for doing the same, and a great deal better than most for it.” The Lion told him paternally. He then continued, “Narnia is my special possession. But the world is bigger than Narnia alone. I have other sons and daughters out there to the west, north, and south. Creatures I brought into being as I did those here. Sons of Adam, Daughters of Eve, and races you have never met. And those children are suffering and dying as well at the hands of Mordor, and the fallen one, Sauron, who is its lord. There is the will, but little strength left in the west to contain him and his horde, much less defeat him outright.”

“But what can we do against so many as I have been told of? We cannot stand against hundreds of thousands, not for long. I am not so arrogant a general as to believe that much in my military prowess.” Peter told him. “We might win a battle or two, but in the end...”

“A battle or two is all you may have to hold out for.” Aslan told him, and then turned to face the west

Peter followed suit asking, “What do you mean?”

“You are right in that even should you slay all the orcs in Mordor, you could not win by sheer numbers. Sauron is a creature who is not born of this world. He cannot be slain by mere force of mortal arms, and he would eventually rebuild his armies as he has done these last centuries, and the world would face his domination yet again.” Aslan told him.

“He sounds the very devil himself.” Peter remarked.

With a sad expression as though remembering something painful, Aslan remarked, “Just so.”

“What hope is there then?” The high king asked. “What good will winning a few battles do to be rid of him and secure peace for our country, and every country?”

Aslan took a deep breath and sighed. “Because Sauron made a foolish mistake millennia ago. In his lust for power, he tied his own life’s essence to a gold ring, a vain piece of jewelry, in the attempt to bring Middle Earth under his complete control. And in this foolishness lies his downfall at the hands of two dear little people who even now have crossed into the swamps on the northern edge of his territory. For they carry this hateful ring with them with the intent to destroy it at the heart of the volcano where it was forged.”

Peter took in this information trying to fill in the gaps and discern Aslan’s strategy, but pieces were still missing. “And how do we then help this endeavor?”

“As you have been told, Sauron’s eye is turned west,” Aslan explained, “and he fields troops at his leisure against Gondor and its allies, but there are still countless orcs and creatures of darkness standing between these little folk and their goal; those hundreds of thousands which you now lose sleep over. The leaders of man in the west will try and field their own troops to draw them out for the same reason, as they are intimate with these plans, but they no longer have the troop strength to draw all of them away from their path. They have recently suffered great and painful losses while defending their capital. They cannot field enough troops for Mordor to take them as much of threat now, regardless of who leads them.”

“And we can?” Peter asked.

“Their border with Gondor is heavily guarded and fortified. They know the forces of men could not hope to break through it. But they are not expecting a sizable force to attack from the east, from a direction which has next to no defense in comparison for that reason. You have already seen that, though they now know of your existence, they see you only as a source of lumber and food. But when your forces do attack from the east at the same time as those in the west, they will mobilize all of their troops in a panic and send them both east and west, clearing the way for the ring to be destroyed right under Sauron’s nose.” The Lion told him.

Peter considered his words, and the strategy behind them. It was clever and bold, and he saw the irony in such a large and powerful enemy being taken down by such a small thing. “And once this Sauron is destroyed, will it be over? Will we be able to return home?”

“Yes. You and all those with you will finally be able to go home.” Aslan affirmed for him.

“And those orcs we take prisoner?” Peter questioned. “What do we do with them?”

“This will be difficult for you and these here.” Aslan gestured with his muzzle towards the camp. “But you must take no prisoners. You must accept no surrenders. You must destroy every orc, every troll, and every servant of Sauron which you see. The only exception to this may be the Calormene troops which you encounter who may throw down their arms at the sight of you. But every last orc be it male or female, young or old must be put to the sword.”

“It is to be genocide then?” The high king asked, shocked at the Great Lion’s words. He had never heard the Lion call for no mercy and no quarter be given.

“Unfortunately, it is.” The Lion confirmed for him. “I would not that it be necessary, but it has come to this. Where once their people might have been redeemed, they are no longer even creatures of nature but birthed through foul sorcery and abominations. There must not be one orc left alive when this war is done. Am I understood?”

Peter took a moment before responding, letting the dire sentence which Aslan had pronounced sink in. Then, steeling himself, and setting his face like a flint to carry out Aslan’s pronouncements, he responded, “Yes, Aslan. It will be done.”

After another moment of silence, the son of Adam asked him, “One more question, Aslan. Will you be with us?”

“I have never truly left you, son of Adam. I will always be with you.” The Great Lion told him.

“Will we then see you in the fight?” Peter then pressed his question, heartened by Aslan’s response.

“When you need me the most, I will be there.” The True King of Narnia responded. “I will never abandon you or forsake you.”


	5. Chapter 5

Fleasack inspected the teeth on the tree saws which had just been unloaded from the wagons and groaned audibly. 

“This worthless garbage is just like the ax heads.” He muttered none too quietly. “Rusty and dull as the brains of the dung worms what brought them.”

The saws had been sitting there waiting until everything was in place to begin cutting down the abominable green wood which had been so troublesome to the Uruk-hai that had rushed in without looking first. The fools had just charged into the woods at first, intent on setting up their camps right within them. As Fleasack understood it, they paid for that mistake with their heads. These trees as it turned out, were just as contrary and difficult to deal with as those from Fangorn Forest. Neither they nor the vermin that inhabited were quite as easy to put down as the overlord believed. It made no difference to Fleasack. A few less of those swaggering overmuscled dungsacks would do the world a favor in his opinion. But it did mean that they had to wait on getting started until they had enough arms and enough backs to subdue the termite ridden oaks and rowans just to cut them down. Just the other day one of his company got too close to the edge and found himself first pulled down into the ground by a tree root, and then what was left of him thrown a good distance into the desert for good measure. For that reason they had set up the camps in the waste just beyond the reach of the tree roots that liked to move by themselves like serpents in the ground. They’d get them cut alright, they just needed more labor to do it.

“Can’t you maggots at least sharpen these damn saws before you load them?” The orc foreman yelled in the Black Speech to his fellows that had brought the wagons from their outpost close to the Sea of Nurnen. “Ugh, it’ll take forever for these things to cut through those thick trunks.” He complained.

“Sharpen them yourself, fleabag. We didn’t get the chance, now did we? The overlord ordered everything be moved out across the waste immediately.” The orc closest to Fleasack retorted, intending the derogatory pun on his name. “Said we wasn’t going to be getting any more wood from Saruman or the west any time soon. Our supply lines there is cut off now, ain’t they?”

“Bah! Lazy bastards, the lot of you, making excuses.” Fleasack grumbled some more. He had been given a quota from that same overlord, but as usual the Uruk chieftain’s demands were unrealistic. It was nothing new. Those maggot sacks back in Nurn would get what they got when they got it.

It wasn’t Fleasack’s fault that the overlords couldn’t stand up to a few thousand men on horseback, and with the Witch King of Angmar there to boot! The orc foreman’d been doing his own job on the other side of Mordor at the time! Oh sure, he’d heard about it. Something about a huge ghost army led by a single ranger sweeping in. It was a load of rubbish to be sure. A bunch of excuses for the captains on the field not to lose their heads if they hadn’t already. Bunch of whining filth the lot of them.

His one consolation was that the cloud cover had been extended from Mordor out this far so that they didn’t have to deal with the painful sunlight as well. Not that his masters in Mordor would’ve cared. They’d have ordered him and the rest of the lumberjacks out here in the full sunlight too if it suited them. Fleasack would’ve had burns for a month.

The eastern woods in question had been fairly quiet the morning they were to actually get to work. The lack of sounds was actually a welcome change of pace for him, but it unnerved him all the same. It was strange considering every day up to this point the foraging parties got some kind of trouble from either the trees themselves or the natives. It wasn’t nothing they couldn’t handle of course so long as they were smart about it, and they brought back some pretty decent meat for the cooking fires, he had to admit. It tasted a combination of horseflesh and manflesh some of it, the meat sweet and savory.

The orc turned his attention to the stand of trees directly to his right not ten paces, and then turned to face them. He couldn’t hear no birds chirping like there was just the day before, and no little vermin scattering through the brush like there was neither. He stood still as a stone listening for anything like there was just yesterday, but heard nothing.

“Hey, this ain’t normal.” He announced to his fellows. “It’s too quiet!”

“You ain’t normal, Fleasack.” One of them called back. “’Bout time, they was given me the willies!”

“Pox on you and your willies! No you maggot filth, I mean listen. There ain’t nothing there like there’s supposed to be! Something ain’t right!” He called back, turning his head to shout at them directly.

And just as he turned his bestial orcish visage back towards the trees he found an arrow with a red shaft planted between his eyes. He would have been completely surprised had he survived it. Instead, Fleasack’s corpse dropped where it had been standing. 

In a wide swath around the dead orc, all around the camps, a rain of arrows launched from those same quiet trees descending on the orc laborers like a lethal downpour, catching the orcs unawares, and striking down any and all found within their range. 

Around the lumber camp orcs scrambled for cover and to grab their own bows and weapons to retaliate against their as yet unknown attackers. Some managed to fire off several of their own arrows into the trees, but were shooting blindly, not knowing from where the deadly rain had come. Black shafts protruded from tree trunks that appeared to move on their own accord to shield whatever archers might have been behind them. Around those that managed to survive the fall of arrows were the screams and cries of impaled and badly injured orcs.

“Where’re they coming from?!” One of their fellows cried in his foul native tongue in surprise and shock.

And then the trees erupted as thousands of centaurs wielding swords and axes burst forth and out of the woods, stampeding through the camps and into the surprised orcs. Dark skinned centaurs, light skinned centaurs, and centaurs somewhere in between drove into them. Centaur hooves trampled down orcs and smashed their corpses into the dirt as they passed. Long centaur blades cleaved pitch black orc heads in twain, and severed arms which held weapons. Centaurs with bows leaped and fired again and again at the servants of Mordor whether they be upright or on the ground. Any movement of orc flesh received the fatal sting of an arrow or the hard bite of a blade’s edge.

Interspersed with the centaurs were rhinoceroses which were impervious to the orcs’ arrows. They smashed into the lumber equipment and carts, destroying them on impact. Talking unicorns in barding armor joined them, soon fouling their magnificent horns with oily black blood. Talking leopards and predatory cats leaped at the orcs, claws extended and fangs bared.

One of the race of men led the charge of centaurs, crying out, “For Narnia! And for Aslan!” He was encased from head to foot in shining plate armor and wielding a long gleaming sword opposite a shield with the crest of a roaring lion. A gold circlet adorned his helm signifying his rank, and a red tabard flowed over his breastplate with the same lion’s sigil. He rode a tall, powerfully built white war horse. The horse too was armored from head to hindquarters like the liege lord who rode him.

One of the Uruks there to keep Mordor from losing too many of the weaker dogs, a tall, muscular leonine orc with long shaggy jet black mane stood his ground against the armored rider on the white horse. He could not see the man thing’s face, because it was hidden behind a steel visor, but he knew it was a man nonetheless. He could smell the manflesh from where he stood. He roared in defiance at him.

“Come face me tiny man!” He roared in the common tongue at the lion crested rider. “Get down off your horse and face me like a real warrior!” 

But the rider either didn’t understand the Uruk, or wouldn’t be bated. Instead, he charged at the orc warrior, blade at the ready to strike.

The Uruk raised his heavy hooked blade to meet the armored rider’s challenge, both hands on the hilt, just waiting to cleave the metal cased man thing’s horse and force him to fight on foot where the Uruk believed he had the advantage of size and strength.

But just then he felt the thud of something sharp and painful in his back. One of those wretched centaurs had shot him in the back! In surprise, he dropped his heavy sword just as the white rider passed and brought his own sword around to sever the Uruk’s head from his shoulders in a clean and powerful blow. Black blood sprayed and spilled onto the ground. The armored rider did not stop to survey his handiwork but moved on to the next orc warrior standing.

The orcs, not having been given any reason to expect a force of this size to come upon them, were completely overwhelmed. Some, attempting to escape the slaughter foolishly attempted to run for the cover of the trees. They realized their mistake too late as the trees themselves viciously grabbed them and had their way with their would be assassins. Those that managed to escape the vengeful branches and roots found themselves at the mercy of another force.

Out from the trees and behind the cavalry rushed foot soldiers of every shape and size imaginable. They too were led by one of the race of men encased in armor and wearing a similar gold circlet on his helm. Whichever of Mordor’s servants had survived the first two assaults, even if only moaning in pain on the ground, was quickly put to the sword by those who came behind. The slaughter continued for hours until every orc in sight had ceased to draw breath. 

This was how the army of Narnia began its march west as the bleak ground of the western wastes ran black with orc blood like a petroleum slick had erupted and spilled all through that land. When their grim work was done, the order was given to put the orc’s equipment, weapons, and bodies to the torch. They would not be looted. Their effects would not be touched except by the flame. The Narnians wanted there to be little if any memory of them left upon the edge of their borders before they moved on. The one exception to this was the remains of the carcasses from the cooking fires. These were carefully gathered, treated with honors, and buried with the respect due them. When all there was left were bones that could no longer be identified, these too were gathered and buried together. They spent the next two days securing their border from any other orc camps north and south along the western woods, burying their dead citizens, and removing the orc filth from the land before moving on. 

* * *

Two days after...

It might have been an excruciatingly hot summer day in the desert if it weren’t for the darkened cloud cover which still hung over their heads in the sky. It rendered the weather gloomy, but at least cooler than it would have been otherwise. What dark magic Mordor had meant to protect its own servants by blotting out the sun now worked in the Narnians’ favor as they completed their tasks before continuing east. Peter and Edmond stood around a table in their command tent with their captains going over the final tallies which had been delivered to them. 

“One thousand and thirty four orcs all told and accounted for.” Edmond announced, reading from sheets of parchment which had been delivered to him and doing the necessary maths. He didn’t need to add that all those foul corpses had been destroyed by fire. The stench from the bonfires wafted across the wastes like loathsome cooking fires.

“And our own losses?” Peter asked him.

Edmond hesitated a little before reading those numbers off, “Seventy two cavalry, three dozen archers, and a hundred footmen. Two hundred and eight soldiers in total, mostly from arrows the fiends managed to fire off before they were finished.”

“Mostly?” Peter questioned.

“Some of our people hesitated with their killing blows, your majesties.” A talking mouse answered him. “A few attempted to accept surrender from the enemy.” 

He was the captain of the talking mice who had answered the call to arms, his people especially devoted to the Great Lion. His name was Klipplewick, and in spite of his diminutive size, he was one of their finest swordsmen and his own courage against the orcs was nothing short of remarkable. He could be like a ghost on the battlefield, moving unseen until it was too late. Many orcs felt the lethal sting of his blade before they even knew he was there. Any general would feel himself lucky to have more like Klipplewick under his command.

Of course they did. Peter thought to himself. Had I not heard the instruction from Aslan himself, I would have offered surrender too. Out loud he said, “Send word out to all our troops, make sure everyone understands the order. No surrender is to be accepted from the orcs, and no quarter is to be given. Let those two hundred of our dead serve to remind them why.”

“It will be done, your majesty.” Klipplewick answered immediately, though even he appeared uncomfortable with it.

“Their bodies should be prepared and sent back to their families before moving on.” Peter told him, only the slightest hint of emotion in his voice betraying his mixed feelings. 

“It appears our victory here was complete, was it not your majesty? Our forces passed their first test in battle. That should be something.” One of the captains, a centaur man who had been a veteran in the battle against the White Witch remarked.

“Did they? We outnumbered them twenty four to one against peons and serfs no less who had no idea we were coming, and yet still we lost over two hundred of our own to their blades and arrows. We slaughtered lumberjacks, not hardened soldiers. I do not see this as a true victory, Joseph.” Peter returned, an uncharacteristic anger edging his voice as he spoke directly to that same captain. “No. Our real test will be when we cross the waste three days hence and reach Mordor’s western edge.”

“Of course, your majesty. My apologies if I spoke wrongly.” The centaur, Joseph, responded, feeling the sting of his king’s rebuke.

Peter paused for a moment, and then checked himself. “No, Joseph, forgive me. You are right, we won this one. And it would be asking too much to not expect losses from our first taste of combat regardless of our advantage of numbers.”

The centaur nodded, his respect for his high king only growing with his lord’s display of humility.

After this, the order of business was in establishing the supply lines between Narnia and the army as it moved west. The wasteland in between the two countries held very little natural water, and they could expect no rainfall according to Sir Eric, who also stood by in the tent wearing his chain mail and Gondorian surcoat, waiting until their majesties called on him to speak.

“The army will need to carry water with them across the desert as well as food, moving at night, making camp during the day.” The knight told them.

“Didn’t you say that their patrols increased at night because the darkness was their own element?” King Edmond asked.

“I did.” Sir Eric confirmed. “But it will make no difference with the sun darkened from the clouds. They will be able to move freely.”

“Are there no springs or oases of which we might make use between here and there?” Edmond asked.

The knight unrolled a large parchment which he had been carrying and laid it on the table. On it, Sir Eric had drawn out the details of the land of Mordor which he could remember from his failed expedition.

“The only large body of water which is remotely drinkable is the Sea of Nurnen which we will not reach until passing to the south of Lithlad and beyond.” He pointed to a large feature he had marked that lay north of the southern mountain range before pointing again to a region to the northeast. “But there are several rivers and tributaries which feed into it before passing Lithlad. In addition, I was able to find small springs to keep me alive as I crossed, but I was one man. It is doable, but with a force this size, water wagons will be especially essential until we reach Mordor proper.”

“What about fortifications?” Peter asked. “What kind of resistance will we meet besides those patrols?”

“There are a few settlements to the south of our route in Ered Glamhoth of eastern men allied with Sauron. They might give us trouble.” The knight pointed t a mountainous region to the southeast of the map. “But I do not think they will be able to challenge a force of our size should it come to that.”

“Men, not orcs?” Peter asked, wanting to be certain he heard correctly.

“Yes, your majesty. Unless I am much mistaken, I think they might have originally come from that land to your south you call ‘Calormen.’” Sir Eric replied.

“Would they be amenable to surrender if it were offered?” Peter asked.

“Possibly, if they felt there was no chance of their victory. Their alliance with Sauron is one of fear and ambition that my comrades and I could gather. They have no true love for him.” The knight answered.

“That is something useful at least.” Peter remarked with a hint of hopeful sarcasm. “Perhaps we do not have to kill everyone who crosses our path.”

“There is one more possible threat which we may need to take into consideration upon entering the black land, your majesties. When my men and I were there in that cursed land, several times we saw huge shapes in the sky like great wyrms or dragons. Those flying beasts had riders on them darker than any orc.” Sir Eric told him.

“How so?” Peter asked.

“We couldn’t be sure, but before we left Gondor, we had heard rumors that Sauron’s special lieutenants, the nazgul had arisen again.” The knight explained.

When the Gondorian said the very word, a dark chill surrounded them as though the mere speaking it might summon some dark and unholy demon of death.

He continued. “According to legend, they were ancient kings who had sold themselves to Sauron for power, and now walk the land as neither living nor dead. They are fearsome wraiths, of whose leader it is said no man can kill. Those who rode these black wyrms struck a fear within us so unnatural as to take our hearts completely even at the distance above us which they were. If the legends are anything close to accurate, should Sauron field just one of these ungodly fiends against Narnia’s forces, it could prove disastrous even if we have the advantage.”

“Aslan said he would be there when we needed him most.” Peter replied after absorbing this new information. “All we can do is our part, and trust him to do his. We knew this would not be easy. We only need hold out until this ‘ring bearer’ Aslan spoke of accomplishes his mission.”

“And when will we know that, your majesty?” One of the other captains asked.

But Peter had no answer for him other than, “We will know.”

* * *  
At the Castle of Cair Paravel… 

Queen Lucy looked out from the balcony of her family’s private apartments in Cair Paravel over the ocean that night. Her delicate feminine hands gripped the carved stone railing hard. She had always enjoyed sailing and visiting the islands to the east which fell under Narnian sovereignty. The sea air could be invigorating, and the camaraderie aboard a ship at sea could be warm and entertaining, at least how she found it.

But the salty water that stung her cheeks that night came from her own eyes.

“Lu?” She heard the voice of her older sister calling for her gently from behind.

“I’m out here, Susan.” She called back without turning around.

Behind her, she heard the quiet footsteps of the elder queen join her out on the balcony. Lucy had always thought her sister prettier than herself, though no one had ever actually said as much. Even in her elder years with streaks of silver in her dark brown hair, she was still a handsome woman with a sweet smile and gentle disposition in general.

“I thought I’d find you here.” Susan began.

“I should have been there. I could have saved them.” She told her.

“So you heard the list of casualties.” It was a statement, not a question. “The field medics did all they could as I have been told. You trained them well, sister.”

“But I could have saved them, Susan!” Lucy told her, turning to face her. “I still have the medicine Father Christmas gave me! I could have saved all of them!”

Susan was quiet for a moment as she studied the pain in her sister’s face. It was a pain she felt as well at the loss of hundreds, but did not feel she could show just in that moment. She would be able to shed tears later, in private. But for now, those here in the castle were looking to her, the senior queen, to be strong for them, and she would be, just like she was determined to be so for her little sister.

“Could you have really?” She asked gently, attempting to employ reason. “Do you still have enough of the fire flower juice after all these years, to have treated over two hundred people? I don’t recall the flask being that big.”

“Well, I...” Lucy began, then stopped herself. She knew the answer. “I could have saved some of them at least! I should have been there! And you! You’re the finest archer in Narnia! Your arrows never miss! We should be marching with them!”

“And who would be protecting Narnia in our absence?” Susan inquired. “Who would see to it that the supply wagons continued to move? Without them, the army would starve or die of thirst. Or who would see that those who returned alive but unable to fight receive medicine and care? There is more to war than just fighting, dear sister. Our role is no less important than Peter’s or Edmond’s.”

Lucy was quiet after that. She knew the truth of her sister’s words, but obviously did not like them. The sea air was chill on her shoulders, and she wrapped the shawl she wore around herself tighter in response. After a few moments she said, “I worry for them, Susan. For our brothers. It feels different now. When we fought against the Witch, all of us were present, and Aslan himself was there. I didn’t feel as terrified then as I do now. What if something happens and they don’t come home? What if one of them is shot with one of the horrid poisoned arrows and dies because I wasn’t there with my flask? What then?”

“You saw the letter which Peter sent to us before this first assault.” Susan reminded her. “Aslan himself told Peter to march. We cannot argue with Aslan’s own words, as much as I might try in my own head.” Susan then forgot herself for just a moment and giggled at her own words even as a tear fell from her own eye and she wiped it quickly. “Peter was adamant that he wanted us to remain in Cair Paravel and tend to the supplies and the wounded that made their way home. He did not want us to be there, and like it or not, Aslan made him high king over us all. We must respect his wishes.”

Susan’s admittal of her inner thoughts brought a small smile to Lucy’s own lips as she said, “I thought I was the only one arguing in my head.”

Susan giggled again briefly as she said, “No, little sister. I have been arguing with both their words in the silence of my own thoughts fiercely since I learned them; our brother’s and Aslan’s.”

They both smiled at that, feeling not so alone in their rebellious and troubled thoughts. The moment was shared between them, and then gave way to practical matters once more.

“ We have just received another letter from the front by way of the eagles. Peter has requested barrels of water for the army in addition to foodstuffs. Wagons full of these barrels to help them cross the wastes.” Susan told her. “There is precious little of it out there to the west until they reach the country of Mordor.”

“The poor beavers are already working themselves to death to provide wood for the supply wagons and arrows.” Lucy commented. “And there are more wakened trees in Narnia than not. We may have to request King Lune’s aid for the casks.”

“My thoughts as well.” Susan told her.

After a minute, Lucy added, “Father Christmas was right those many years ago. War is a nasty, ugly business isn’t it?”

“Yes. It is.” Susan agreed as the two queens looked out over the sea together, frightened for those they loved.


	6. Chapter 6

The night was cold, bitterly cold as the majority of the Narnian army slept in the wasteland while watches were posted. Once they lost what light managed to make it through the darkened clouds, the desert night’s cold was frigid, like Narnia’s hundred year, Christmas-less winter threatened to return each evening and would only leave once the dawn’s light broke in the east. Those troops who bore a natural fur or long hair did better with it than those with short hair, or like the sons of Adam, none at all. The kings of Narnia, as well as those troops from Archenland found themselves sleeping in their heavy woolen armor padding wrapped in woolen blankets. Even still, the cold managed to find a way through and chill them to the bone during the night.

They had marched out from the western edge of Narnia on the sixth day after the slaughter of the orc lumbercamps, and the day after the wagons loaded down with casks of water and food supplies for the trek west arrived. At first, the thinking had been to follow Sir Eric’s recommendation to march at night, but they soon realized those nights before they began their march that the darkness of the cloud cover made that impossible. At night, even the light of the stars and the waning moon were blotted out and the world of the wasteland was plunged into a darkness so thick, so tangible, one might have been forgiven for thinking they had been condemned to the abyss. Even those talking beasts which were nocturnal and accustomed to operating in darkness had difficulty seeing anything with no source of light at all. Torches which were lit around the camp even could only do so much, and the darkness around them fought against the light of the flames furiously. The desert days, so blistering and unforgiving when the Gondorian knight had made his own crossing, had been tamed by the heavy cloud cover, reducing them to merely warm, even temperate.

Each day, two hours before they lost all light from what sun managed to break though, the company would call for a halt to break camp for the night to eat, sleep, and take in the reports of both the scouts of the ground who could run ahead much faster, and those scouts in the sky, the griffins and eagles who could see hundreds of miles farther than they. These flying scouts proved invaluable to them, keeping a careful watch on the lands which were their goal, and reported back frequently with news either welcome or troublesome. Some of these also kept watch over their rear supply lines to ensure the precious wagons continued to moved freely across the land, as well as taking post between the army’s current encampment and dropping it at either Cair Paravel in Narnia or Anvard in Archenland where it could then be distributed to families and loved ones.

Just before what passed for dawn, the army was awakened to march once more across the drab desert sands, rocks, and dry gulleys, always keeping an eye to the west, their flying scouts especially keeping them on course without the presence of the sun to guide them. Sir Eric was right in that there was the occasional pool of water hidden away in clefts, but they were never enough to quench the thirst of tens of thousands either great or small in stature, and many were fouled and undrinkable for anyone.

On the second day of marching, the flying scouts spotted another company of orcs traveling eastwards along their path, but still a good distance off. Twenty of the fiends surrounded two large wooden wagons pulled by some two legged monstrosities that barely resembled either orc or man, and was four times as large. It was the Gondorian who identified these beasts of burden as mountain trolls. These orcs were different from most of those the Narnians had encountered at first. Those who had first followed Sir Eric into Narnian land all had skin the color of pitch, black as obsidian or volcanic rock. These appeared shorter than those first orcs, less muscular, and were paler in skin color. Some were pale like light had never touched their skin, others were gray as though themselves already corpses, and still a few had a sickly green tinge to them.

In a way, the Narnians had been strangely fortunate that this was their first sighting of the servants of Sauron since they began their march. Since that first encounter, they had run across no additional orc laborers or caravans to reinforce those already sent. The desert had belonged to the Narnian army unchallenged up to that point except by scorpions, lizards, and desert vipers.

It had been Sir Eric himself, once more mounted on Fleetfeather’s back who had spotted them. He and the griffin had formed a good partnership over those days since he had first left Cair Paravel westwards, and they worked well together taking in the lay of the land as they flew ahead. For this reason they had been made captains of the airborne company. They had scouted the regions westward from the air every day along with dozens of others, flying as far as the ruins at Lithlad in northeastern Mordor and Ered Glamhoth in the southeast before turning back and reporting to the kings and captains when the army had made camp before dusk. He was certain that the travelers with the wagons were orcs and not eastern men. What he was not certain of was what the wagons held as there were heavy tarps which had been thrown over them, and neither man nor griffin could see their contents.

It was the third day of the Narnians’ march, and the presence of the orcs only served to reinforce where they now were, and into whose land they had come. The river upon which they had put their trust in for fresh water after their own supplies had begun to run dry was not far off, the Gondorian projected that the army would reach it just after noon on the morrow. But neither was the fortress to the army’s northwest in Lithlad. It was a gleaming structure that, from Sir Eric’s knowledge of architecture, hearkened back to the days of the Numenoreans, though it had clearly succumbed to the pressures of time and its monstrous occupancy. While Sauron’s servants could destroy and ruin like no other, orcs could never have built something so grand and magnificent as he saw. From the knight’s overflights, he could easily imagine there were at least a thousand orcs within its walls, maybe two thousand, and not the laborers which the Narnians overcame beyond the western wood either. These would be real warriors.

The knight and his griffin partner now kept watch from a bluff high above them as the enemy party made its way through a desert canyon. The light was beginning to fade on that day. The orcs and their trolls had not slept the entire night, and had closed the distance between themselves and the Narnians during that time to where they were a mere hour, maybe two at their current pace from stumbling on the army’s encampment. The ground beneath them was all sand at the moment as there was no road, paved or unpaved, which would take them where they would go.

What the orcs did not know was that there was a small company of forty centaurs and men on horseback lying in ambush, just waiting for them among the rocks and clefts. If all went according to plan, the orcs would not know what hit them, and the fortress that sent them would not know what had happened to them or their cargo.

Closer and closer they came. One heartbeat. Two heartbeats. And then the centaur captain gave the signal. Arrows flew penetrating half the orc party’s skulls within seconds. They fell, spilling black blood all over the sand. The rest of the orc warriors dove for cover under their wagons and behind the trolls who took hit after hit with arrows until they looked like a maiden’s sewing pincushion, but did not fall. Then, the mounted cavalry from Archenland and the Narnian centaurs charged them, intending to impale the trolls on swords and bleed them with axes.

When they saw the arrows had ceased firing, the remaining orcs appeared again from their hiding places only to see the Narnian cavalry bearing down on them. The soldiers reached the first troll intending to cut into its neck, but the massive creature went wild either from the pain of the arrows still imbedded in its flesh or from the appearance of the armored riders charging at it. It began crying out in great roars, thrashing and swiping at the cavalry and didn’t seem to either know or care where its fists went as one orc was backhanded so hard that it flew into the side of a rocky bluff and didn’t rise again. Another received a fist to the noggin and dropped like a stone when his head cracked. The soldiers tried to stay clear of the beast, but two got caught by its powerful blows and both horses and riders went down unmoving.

The troll continued to thrash from its wounds and began to beat on the wagon it was strapped to and overturned it, spilling its contents including several sealed casks which hit the sand and burst open. Their foul smelling contents spilled all over the sand where the creature was thrashing. Around them, the riders continued to beat down the remaining orcs, putting them to the edge of their blades, and attempted to contain both trolls after the second one joined his fellow in its lethal dance of madness.

One soldier yelled to a nearby centaur so loud that Sir Eric could hear from his perch up above, “How do we kill this thing?!!”

“You’re asking me?!! I’ve never seen one before in my life, Archenlander!!” The centaur shouted back as he just narrowly leaped out of the way of a wild blow.

With the orcs dispatched, the remaining soldiers concentrated on each of the trolls, crowding around them and probing them for weaknesses. None of them had ever seen such powerful and malevolent creatures before. While there were creatures the Narnians called “trolls” in the Trollshaws of the northern country called Northfell, they were nowhere near the size and strength of these brutes. 

They were so preoccupied with the trolls, they didn’t notice the sand shifting beneath their feet.

Suddenly, right where the first troll was standing, a massive armored white worm burst from the sand and grabbed the beast in its multi-jawed mouth ringed with jagged fangs. It was easily as thick around as an ancient tree and the height of a watchtower as it carried the troll into the air screaming for fear. Oily black fluid dribbled from the mouth of the worm as it dragged the troll back into the earth from whence it came, slamming it hard against the bluff twice for good measure.

Then a second one erupted just as abruptly and grabbed the centaur who had never seen these kinds of trolls before. Red centaur blood flowed from the mouth of the worm who had grabbed it from the underside, and he soon stopped struggling. The soldiers were taken by surprise but to their credit they shifted their attacks quickly to the worms, losing all interest in the remaining troll in the attempt to save their comrades.

A third one burst out of the ground and grabbed another rider on his horse. The poor animal didn’t last long as the fangs ripped into its underbelly, but the man was encased in armor from head to foot, and the worm’s dagger like fangs couldn’t find an entryway to the soft flesh beneath it.

Thinking quickly, Sir Eric asked Fleetfeather, “Can you carry two men at once?”

“Not for long, but maybe!” Fleetfeather announced, believing he knew what the knight meant for them to do. “Jump on!”

The two leaped from their perch and dove for the man still struggling in the worm’s mouth but alive. Fleetfeather grabbed at the man’s arms with his forward talons trying to pull him free from the mouth of the beast. His armor was stained with bloody gore of his horse, and slippery.

Seeing that it wasn’t working, Sir Eric drew his sword and with only the thought of freeing the man, he leaped off of Fleetfeather’s back and onto the back of the worm sword tip downwards and finding a chink in the worm’s armor, drove it into what he took for the creature’s head.

Surprised, the worm released the Archenlander soldier and he fell to the ground. It then began to thrash around in pain and confusion, throwing the knight this way and that until he was shaken off the worm’s back and it dropped itself back into the ground. He landed hard on the sand, but whole and alive.

Around him however, more worms had erupted from the ground. More than he could count in that moment of time to see them. They attacked anything which moved and especially seemed to congregate near where the casks of foul smelling orc grog had emptied their contents across the sands.

“Fall back!!” He cried out as his fellows continued to be attacked. “Run!!!”

He ran for the man he had dared to try and save and, taking him by the hand, with the strength given him by the danger of the moment, he hauled him to his feet, armor and all, and began to run with him. Nearby, he could hear the pounding of horse and centaur hooves against the desert sand as the soldiers fled back in the direction in which they had come. One particularly large centaur warrior ran by the knight and hoisted the injured horseman onto his own back before breaking into a full gallop from that place. With the injured man secured, and the rest of their men in the retreat, Sir Eric ran as fast as he could until his felt large, eagle like talons grab a hold of both arms and he was lifted from the ground and into the sky.

“I’ve got you, friend!” Fleetfeather shouted at him. “What are those things?!”

It took a moment for Sir Eric to recover himself as he watched the scene below him, grieving for the good centaurs and men whom he could not rescue, their blood staining the sands they were dragged beneath.

“Were-wyrms!” The knight finally responded. “I had thought them only legends! My men and I hadn’t encountered them when last I was here!”

Fleetfeather drew him back up to the safety of the bluff, and from there Sir Eric counted close to a dozen of the were-wyrms which had been drawn to the battle. When they had all returned to the earth beneath them, he mounted the griffin once more and flew to catch up with the retreating soldiers as they all returned to camp.

Now we know why the east of Mordor is so lightly guarded. He thought to himself mournfully. I should have known. He felt the deaths of those good soldiers lost most keenly on his own conscience. It was his information that had led them to this road.

* * *

The discovery of the were-wyrms beneath the sands along their intended route caused no little debate among the kings and captains of the army that evening. They would have reached the river by late afternoon of the next day if it were not for the worms guarding the sands of the passes through the bluffs and canyons of the desert. As it stood, they had lost ten to the wyrms, excepting the one that Sir Eric had valiantly rescued. And more might have been dragged beneath had he not sounded the retreat when he did.

“Is there any other way to reach the river by tomorrow?” High King Peter questioned the knight.

“The most direct route is through the canyons, your majesty.” The knight replied, pointing down to the map of Mordor he had originally drawn up. Since that point, he had updated it with new information as he had gathered it, and drawn in more details as he could remember them from his flights with his griffin companion. “Any further northwest will take us up to the gates of the orc fortress and through those same sands.”

“So you’re saying we have to run the sands and risk losing our people as food for worms? That is not acceptable.” The high king replied.

“Not necessarily, your majesty.” Sir Eric replied. “On our last overflight, we discovered a pass through the cliffs and mountains to the southwest. It will lead to greener lands and rockier footing where I don’t believe the were-wyrms can trouble us, but we will not reach the river by tomorrow should we take it. And Fleetfeather saw the smoke from cooking fires, and the movement of people in that direction.”

“People? What sort of people?” King Edmond asked, listening to the exchange.

“We were at too great a distance. He couldn’t be sure, but it is known there are easterlings, men of the east which live in the mountains and around the sea. Allies of Sauron, your majesty.” The knight replied.

“Our water supplies are nearing their end, as are the supplies of food. There is more coming according to the latest letter from Susan, but we will need to stop marching for several days for the wagons to catch up to us.” Peter then told them.

“Why did the worms attack then and there?” A small voice asked. It was that of Klippiwick, the mouse captain. “What drew them to that spot? Certainly it wasn’t the motion on the sand alone, otherwise they would have attacked the enemy wagons without our people having to do a thing.”

“I’m not certain.” Sir Eric replied to the diminutive swordsmen, considering the question. “They first congregated in the spot where the wagons had been overturned by the trolls that drew them. Casks of the orc’s foul liquor had burst open and spilled on the sand. The worms first attacked at those points.”

The mouse thought as well on his words before asking, “Can we use that somehow? Perhaps bait them and draw them out so that we can destroy them and allow our people to pass through safely?”

“We barely survived our last encounter with the wyrms. Even if we could find something to bait them as well as the orc’s liquor, I thrust my sword into the head of one and did little better than to scare it off.” The knight answered.

“What about the explosives the dwarves lent us?” Edmond then asked, remembering the wagons which they had so carefully drawn with them on their march. “If we could draw them out across our path and then drop the explosives onto them when they emerge, we could clear a path directly through to the river.”

“Bait them and bomb them?” Peter asked, considering his brother’s proposal.

“Well… yes.” Edmond replied, still thinking through the details of his plan as they spoke. “We could drop bait along the route with the flying scouts, let it hit the sand and soak in for a minute, then circle back and when the worm emerges and opens its mouth, drop a bomb down its gullet like a bitter medicine. We may not need risk anyone on the ground for it at all.”

The captain of the dwarven company, a dwarf named Glogin with a long black beard braided with iron rings, upon hearing reference to his people and their special weapons, perked up his ears to pay special attention. Noticing this, the high king asked him, “In your opinion, could these weapons do the job, Captain Glogin?”

“These explosives can put a hole the size of a minotaur and ten feet deep in solid rock, your majesty.” Glogin replied proudly of his people’s work. “I’ve no doubt they can blow one of these worms apart, especially if they were ingested by them.”

“What do you think, Sir Eric?” Peter asked. “You’ve spent a great deal of time with Fleetfeather and the other flying scouts. Could they drop them with any accuracy?”

“Fleetfeather could tell you what color a man’s eyes were from two hundred feet in the sky, your majesty.” The knight replied. “And I’ve no doubt of the abilities of the others.”

“But what about the bait?” Another captain asked, and with good reason. “We don’t keep barrels of this ‘orc grog’ around. We’ve no idea even what it’s made of.”

“It stank of sour beer and rancid meat.” Sir Eric said.

At this, the dwarven captain appeared to be at war with himself in his inner thoughts, tugging on his beard as if conflicted. Finally, coming to a resolution of his conflict, he spoke as if forced, “My… uh… my men might be able to spare some beer for this, your majesties.”

“Beer? Where did you get beer from?” Edmond asked.

“Well, we brought the casks in our supply wagons, now didn’t we?” Glogin responded defensively. “You said we’d have need of plenty of supplies on the march, and a dwarf’s nothing without a good stout or ale, is he?” Seeing the kings eyeing him questioningly, he followed up with, “We weren’t the only ones. The minotaurs brought their own horrid brews as well. If you want a beer that stinks of rancid meat, I’d ask them.”

The minotaur captain glared at the dwarf in response for his betrayal, but then spoke, addressing the kings, “It’s true, your majesty.” He admitted. “We brought our own supplies of liquor to keep ourselves warm on the cold nights.”

Peter shook his head in surprise, wondering why it surprised him so much, but then addressed both captains, saying, “Your people’s vices may well end up being our army’s salvation in this matter. Round up all the beer and liquor you can spare from both companies. If this plan succeeds, we will all have reason to be thankful for the foresight of your thirst for spirits.” He then added, “If it succeeds, I’ll raise a mug of stout with you myself.

* * *

The sky began to lighten just after dawn. As it did, dozens of griffins and eagles took to th skies. In their claws and talons they carried flasks and casks of alcohol, or alternately, small metal canisters the size and shape of ostrich eggs and covered with dwarven runes. Leading them was Sir Eric and Fleetfeather. It was decided that they would be the first to test their “bait and bomb” strategy. The flight of newly commissioned “bombers” struck quickly for the sight of the ambush where everything went awry. It was thought that the wyrms they encountered the day before might still be in the area, and with the sand already soaked with the orc’s grog, it might be the best place to try to lure one to the surface with fresh liquor on the sand.

The two reached the spot and circled high overhead. “Whenever you’re ready, friend!” The knight told his griffin companion.

Nodding in response, the griffin kept his eagle like eyes pointed at the ground for just the right spot. Then, without warning, he dropped the cask of dwarven beer and watched as it fell from the great height overhead, smashing into splinters and foamy amber liquid against the sand.

“Now we see-” Sir Eric began to say, but he had barely begun to get the words out of his mouth before a huge were-wyrm burst from the sand and shot it’s head some twenty feet into the air looking for prey.

Without more word, Fleetfeather dropped the payload in his other talons having seen just the right moment to let it go. The metal canister fell fast and hard and hit its target perfectly, much to the griffin’s satisfaction.

The next thing they saw was the head and midsection of the worm bursting outwards in all direction in a great ball of flame, and a sound like thunder echoed throughout the bluffs and canyons. The headless body of the worm swayed violently this way and that and then collapsed on the sand where it continued to jerk spasmodically until it lay motionless.

“It works!” Sir Eric shouted triumphantly.

“Indeed! Bravo for the dwarves’ ingenuity, and taste for the drink!” Fleetfeather replied cheerfully.

Sir Eric made a hand gesture to the others, giving the signal to proceed with their own runs. Soon, the entire desert was alive with the sounds of the explosions and the smell of dwarven beer. Worm after worm went for the bait, and some emerged from the ground regardless, presumably to find out what all the commotion was about. The griffins and eagles unleashed against them again and again for the next several hours, returning for more casks and munitions until the entire desert path between where the Narnians had made camp and the river which was their destination was littered with dozens if not hundreds of the corpses of the great white worms.

When an eagle dropped yet another flask of liquor and the ground gave no response or reply, the fleer of scouts turned back to join their fellows who by then had already packed up their camp and would be on the march around and through the gulleys and pathways of dead were-worms towards the river.

Sir Eric and Fleetfeather made one more circuit overflying the area just for good measure to survey their handiwork. That was when Fleetfeather called out to his rider, “Sir Eric! It appears we’ve drawn considerable attention to our expedition from the north!”

Eric turned his own eyes north to attempt to see what the griffin saw. There to the north from the fortress in Lithlad he saw large numbers of bodies flooding out of the gates and towards the worm strewn sandy path.

It was the fourth day, and Mordor was sending out their closest forces to welcome those who would disturb its ‘peace.’

“We need to warn the kings to prepare for battle!” Sir Eric replied.

So it begins. The knight thought to himself.


	7. Chapter 7

The Narnian army reached the desert river which had been their aim shortly after midday, just as planned, but there was no rejoicing or relaxing. Instead, they had drawn themselves up into battlelines, and archers made ready with their arrows. Sir Eric and Fleetfeather had taken their news immediately to the Narnian kings and captains of the large number of enemy forces moving towards their position.

“How many would you say?” The high king had asked the knight from the back of his own warhorse. He and his brother rode at the front of the army, leading their men. “Hundreds, thousands?”

“They numbered in the thousands, your majesty. Were I to estimate, it would be close to two thousand armed orcs, in addition to the trolls Fleetfeather spotted. Of course I can’t be certain, but it looks as if they’ve sent out their entire force in response to the explosions.” The Gondorian knight responded. “We will reach the river before they will, of this I am sure.”

“Then we keep them from crossing, and rain down arrows and bombs on them to whittle them down.” King Edmond said as if he could see the battle already in his mind.

“Agreed.” High King Peter replied. “We keep them on the other side of the river as long as we can and pick off the ones brave enough to cross it.” He then asked, “How far is the orc’s citadel from that point? Could we reach it by nightfall?” The king’s face took on an uncharacteristic expression of hardness, so much so that it took the knight aback.

“Possibly, if the battle does not last all day.” Sir Eric replied, uncertainly. “What does your majesty have in mind?”

The high king took a breath and sighed before revealing his mind. “Aslan instructed that we leave no orc alive, and that we are here to draw their attention from what is happening right under their noses. Razing their fortress would go a long way towards these goals.”

“Are you certain Peter? If we destroy their army at the river, the fortress and its occupants will be no threat to us. We may risk more soldiers’ lives needlessly in a siege without significant gains.” Edmond protested respectfully.

“No, I am not certain it is the safe or even smart thing to do militarily, Ed.” Peter replied. “I am certain our sister would have stronger words for the foolishness of it than you. But Aslan instructed that we give no quarter, take no surrender, and leave no orc alive. As long as there are orcs alive in that fortress, we are disobeying Aslan, and we rule only at his pleasure.”

King Edmond was silent at this as they rode side by side, wrestling with what he would be asked to do both in terms of sending their own troops in and incurring casualties, and in terms of the merciless slaughter which was being discussed. He liked neither, but could not argue with the simple facts that his brother had considered. Aslan was the True King of Narnia above either of them, and the Great Lion had ordered it of them.

“We push to the fortress then if we still have the daylight left.” Edmond finally said, his own expression saddened briefly before he too became resolute, steeling himself for what was to come.

The captain of the companies of mice, Klippiwick, having heard the exchange from the back of a centaur captain who had graciously lent him a ride for his very short stature, then hopped from where he had been riding to the charger on which King Edmond rode, leaping gracefully in spite of the movement of both his platforms.

“Your majesty, if I may have a moment of your time, and propose a solution to the, er, fortress problem.” He addressed his king with a respectful bow.

“Of course, noble mouse. Speak your mind.” King Edmond replied.

Klippiwick then began to outline his plan for all those within earshot. When he was finished, he waited patiently for the king’s reply, knowing not only that the plan was bold and unorthodox in warfare, but also that it would work. He was certain of it.

“They would never see it coming.” King Edmond finally replied, and the high king nodded his approval.

* * *

The river itself as they reached it was relatively narrow, shallow, slow running, and surprisingly clean at that point, flowing as it did from the mountain range to the north, and could be crossed with ease by centaur and horse, coming up to just about the thighs of a man, though the foot soldiers of more diminutive stature would have to be carried across by either wagon or cavalry. But their own crossing would have to wait as they readied themselves for the arrival of the orc’s “welcome party.”

“Send the order to all of our archers,” Edmond told their captains as they formed up, “collect every arrow you can find on the battlefield, whether they be theirs or ours, as soon as you make the crossing. We can afford to waste none.”

The strongest and most physically powerful of their troops, the minotaurs, were placed in the front of the lines bearing heavy shields locked together in front and interspersed among the rest of the forward lines to raise their shields in defense against arrows which might fall against them. The Narnians had hidden their cavalry, led by High King Peter, behind the bluff to their right flank, so that they could not be seen yet from the other side of the river. Their flying scouts, supplied with crates of the dwarven bombs rested atop those same bluffs and out of sight as well. They were accompanied by two companies of archers for their own defense and to snipe at the enemy troops as they received opprtunity.

The first wave of orcs saw the Narnian host from a distance across the river before they reached it. These were a mix of the taller and more physically powerful black skinned uruks and the seemingly weaker and smaller pale skinned variety. But these were no lumberjacks, and no strangers to war either. Upon the first siting, the orcs charged at the arranged forces of armed troops, not able to see the full strength of the entire host for the way they were arranged.

The Narnians held their positions, watching the now charging footsoldiers shouting their screeching, bloodcurdling battlecries. The minotaurs however neither flinched nor appeared moved by the impending horde. Unlike most other Narnians, theirs was a culture of warriors whose lives were marked by trials and hardships, tested and toughened by harsh and brutal upbringings. It was the reason why the kings and queens of Narnia prior to the White Witch had largely shunned them and held them in suspicion. The mob of screaming orcs scared them not one wit. In truth, were one to have observed the expressions on the bovine faces of the nine foot tall warriors, they would have seen them grinning with excited anticipation at the impending clash in contrast to their faun, dwarf, Archenlander, and talking animal counterparts.

The orcs continued to advance, emboldened by the Narnians’ seeming reluctance to engage. They filled the open ground on the other side of the river until it looked as though a river of fiends and foul beasts had flooded the opposing bank. When it looked as though no more would be emerging from the desert passes beyond as the flying scouts watched, a signal was given from the heights of the bluffs.

“Archers!!” The order was given, and as one thousands of archers stood out from behind the front shield wall with nocked bows, drawing them as they stood. Almost as quickly the order was given, “Release!!”

And then chaos erupted on the other side of the river bank as the deadly rain came down on the forces of Mordor. But these orc warriors had been in combat before. They were no strangers to flights of arrows as they quickly raised their own shields to protect themselves. Orc archers returned with their own arrows and the shield bearing minotaurs did their best to protect themselves and their fellows, though not a few of the Narnians fell under the darts returned to them.

From high above the bluffs, Sir Eric gave the signal to the griffins and eagles from Fleetfeather’s back and they leaped into the sky with their ordinance in their talons. The archers at the height of the bluffs then began to unload their own stock on those orcs that managed to make it into the river to cross, shooting at them at will until the previously clean waters flowed black with orc blood and bodies.

From high above on the other side of the river, the flying scouts released their bombs, especially picking out the oversized trolls and armed warriors nearly as big as them. Explosions rang out among them as foul black gore and blood was sprayed and splattered across the field. Confusion and panic broke out among the orcs as they could not tell where the deadly explosions were coming from at first. But soon, black poisoned arrows began to be unleashed at the sky to attempt to down their aerial attackers.

Sir Eric watched as a griffin near he and Fleetfeather had been struck by one, and his own mount had to swerve, dive, and roll as the man held on for dear life in order to avoid them. The black arrows became so thick in the sky that they forced the flying scouts back and out of the air, but the griffins and eagles had done their work well on the battlefield. Eleven more griffins and twice as many eagles were downed before the rest were out of range of the orc bows.

Having driven off the airborne attackers, the orcs began to feel emboldened again and pressed on towards the shallow river crossing where the Narnian army waited. Their numbers had been decimated quite literally, but were still substantial enough to give them confidence against the numbers of the unknown army they saw.

The orcs reached the river en masse and began to cross the narrow flowing waters, mindful of the archers’ arrows which threatened to take them. It was then that the high king who had been watching the scene but hidden from the orcs’ view gave the signal, kicking his own white warhorse into a charge, crying out, “For Narnia and for Aslan!” The cavalry, led by King Peter the Magnificent, stormed from where they had waited out of sight and met the orcs in the river. They were joined by the minotaurs and the front lines of the footsoldiers who had been waiting patiently for their king’s command to bath their own weapons in orc blood.

With great bellows like raging bulls the massive minotaurs flung their shields aside, drew their massive double bladed war-axes, and charged at the orcs, swinging their heavy weapons with glee at the foul warriors at they met them in the river’s waters. Seeing the minotaurs’ courage, the men, fauns, and other front line troops were heartened and charged after them, engaging the orcs. The cavalry too met the orcs blade for blade, and the true battle began in earnest as the waters ran red and black with the blood of those injured and fallen.

When the minotaurs engaged their opponents, to the orcs’ surprise, hordes of rodents leaped from the armor straps and shoulders of the gargantuan warriors and fell upon the heads and necks of the orcs nearest by without mercy. Tiny sharp swords like wicked fangs dug into orc throats, temples, and the backs of their necks so quickly that the fiends didn’t know what had happened until they entered the blackness of death, and their corpses dropped into the river.

High King Peter’s warhorse obeyed his body’s every motion as they fought and soon his own Narnian tabard and kingly armor was splattered with black gore as his weapon fell again and again against the disgusting, nightmarish soldiers which swarmed all around them. It was bitter, butcher’s work he did, and he loathed it, hating every stroke until he felt nothing for those he felled as he fought, and he felt as though he were a spectator in his own body watching it happen. All questions of who those he killed had been, whether they had families, whether they had been someone’s friend had been shoved aside and left to die within him. It was not someone’s son, someone’s father, someone’s friend.

It was an orc, and for that reason alone, it must die.

Around him, the battle raged on as troops fell on both sides. He knew that the outcome was nearly assured by numbers alone unless the enemy was led by an extremely cunning and skilled strategist. As it turned out, they were not. When it became clear that the orcs were on the losing side, many of the cowardly fiends turned tail and ran back in the direction of the desert passes which led back to the fortress. Those cavalry that saw it gave chase.

No orc is to be left alive. Peter thought again as he watched the horsemen and centaurs break off to give chase and run them down. The orcs thinned and thinned until their numbers could be counted in the low hundreds as the Narnians fell upon them again and again, accepting no surrender or laying down of arms. 

It was then that they heard a screech, a terrifying, fear inducing screech from overhead. Peter had never felt so panicked in all of his life as the fear took hold of him. His chest hurt as knots seized in his stomach. Around him, his troops looked badly shaken even as they continued to try and fight. Even the minotaurs who seemed to fear nothing looked spooked and uncertain as wave after wave of tangible, debilitating fear descending upon the blood soaked river and surrounding battlefield.

The remaining orcs appeared to be the only ones unaffected by the fear. Indeed, they looked emboldened and rejuvenated, cheering whatever had delivered the ghastly change upon the clash.

Fighting the overwhelming panic, he looked skyward to see what had brought the change. There, in the sky, was what looked to be a kind of dragon the color of dark basalt circling and hovering in the sky. Its wingspan was enomous, and its back was covered in sharp spines. But it was not the dragon which unnerved him so.

It was the rider cloaked all in black which sat upon the fell beast. The rider’s face could not be seen beneath the cowl it wore, and in truth, it looked like there was only a void of darkness where a face should be. Peter could not tell if it was the dragon which screamed the fear across the battle, or the rider.

Rider and dragon flew low and fast, unnaturally fast, across the river and snatched one of the minotaurs, paralyzed with fear, with the beast’s claws. It drew the warrior high up into the sky before releasing and letting the Narnian fall to his death. Then, the wraithlike fiend did it again, and again, snatching Narnian after Narnian, paralyzed with fear, and ending their lives.

“Archers!!!” The High King tried to call out, but found he couldn’t cry out loud enough, and even if he had, would they even be able to draw their bows to shoot at the wraith?

Around the battle, the sound of the wraith’s gleeful laughter echoed from the bluffs.

In spite of their superior numbers, the tide of the battle began to turn, and Peter began to lose heart at the outcome. How could we have been so stupid as to think we could have dared to march into this place and challenged Mordor’s power? He found himself thinking, become more and more convinced of his folly and worthlessness as a king. I have led all these good men and troops to their deaths, and for what?

In desperation, Peter cried out, “Aslan help us, or we are lost!!” as he watched more and more of his troops felled by the awful rider. Each time the rider took one of the Narnians, Peter could swear that the cowl turned in his direction and though taunting the high king. I can kill you at my leisure, fool. But first, I will make you watch all of your men lose hope and die for your insolence.

Peter did not hear the words, but felt them drive deep into his mind.

Once more, but more weakly he cried out just the Lion’s name, “Aslan! Where are you?!”

As the wraith flew high into the sky for another run, another sound was then heard across the battlefield which startled the black rider. It was a lion’s roar, loud, awesome, and explosive. And as the high king watched incredulously, the shape of a huge golden lion leaped from the top of the nearest bluff high and far into the sky, higher than any cat should be able to leap, and grabbed the dragon with his claws, sinking his fangs into the beast’s neck.

And then Peter watched as lion, dragon, and hapless black rider plunged earthward and slam into the river hard, spraying the bloodied waters in every direction. The dragon twitched and spasmed after the fall, but the lion appeared completely unaffected as he tore into the beast’s neck and destroyed its spine.

And then Aslan turned his attention to the black rider. As Peter watched in awestruck and terrified amazement at the Great Lion’s power against the rider, the wraith, also apparently unaffected by the fall, raised a wickedly sharp bastard sword against him. But the creature did not get the chance to strike as Aslan without mercy sprung at him, claws outstretched and fangs bared as the king of beasts went for the kill. He struck the wraith hard, destroying it and viciously shredding it until all that remained was a steaming pile of wretched black cloth, a broken sword, and a curious silver ring with a dark jewel inset which mysteriously fell to dust as the Lion tread on it, and was washed away by the river’s flow.

Immediately, the tangible fear and dark thoughts which had descended on the high king fled, and he remembered himself and his courage. He cried out to his troops, “Aslan fights with us!” And a great cheer among the Narnians rose up and the slaughter of the orcs was renewed in earnest as they fought harder and harder against them, intending to make them pay for every Narnian life lost that day.

When the last orc they could see had been felled, and all that remained were corpses, Aslan came up alongside his chosen high king and told him, “Your job is not yet done today, Peter. You still have a fortress to raze. Let us go and check on our little friends’ progress, shall we?”

* * *

Earlier before the battle...

Uglutz stood watch on the parapet of the citadel of Shindram like he did every blasted day. He did his job alright, he thought as he took a swig from the grog he kept nearby. He watched. He watched the same desert cliffs day in and day out. The same sand. The same blasted thing over and over again.

Truth was, Shindram gave him the willies, though he’d never admit it to anyone. Word was, it had been one of them ancient man cities once upon a time them Numenoreans tried to erect in Mordor when Sauron was gone from there, and his own people scattered across the land. It looked mannish enough with its high stone walls, but it also had an almost, well, elvish quality to it with its golden flowing towers and bronzed walls. He didn’t like it, and had felt a lot more comfortable back west near the black gate, and darkened architecture of Barad-dur. He’d heard a were-wyrm had tried to destroy Shindram itself not long after they’d captured the man city of Minas Ithil and turned it to their own use. That was the cause of the central tower’s collapse and the ruins around the fortress which his own people hadn’t bothered to rebuild when they had occupied it once more. He too preferred the ruined nature of it.

The orc took another swig of grog as he watched some eagles or desert hawks fly high overhead. He could never tell the two apart, either in the sky or in the stew pot. They flew around and circled the citadel’s ruined keep, landing every so often before jumping into the sky again.

Maybe they’re relieving themselves or something. He thought to themselves. Or maybe they’re laying some eggs. For a brief second he wondered how hawk eggs would taste, but then dismissed the thought with a wordless gesture and turned away from the sight. Even if they’d found some eggs, he’d never get a taste of them. They all go to the fat olog overlord.

He went back to his grog and to contemplating how boring and unchanging the view was. Turning his head towards the inner courtyard of the walled city, he noticed some rats scurrying about on the ground.

Yeah, that’s more like what I’ll get in my stew. More rat meat. He thought. Actually, rat wasn’t too bad, though the little claws tended to get stuck in his teeth if they were prepared right, which they seldom were by the cooks. 

He kept his attention on the rats. There do seem to be a lot of them, more than usual even, he considered as he continued to drink. Then, watching them, he noticed something he thought odd. It almost looked like… Well… For a brief instant, he thought he saw one of them with a sword belt tied around its body.

He looked suspiciously at the mug of grog he was holding, sniffed it, and then decided to poor it out over the side of the parapet. Someone must’ve left it sit too long, he decided.

Tossing away the empty mug, he turned back to watching the desert for any threats.

He felt something scurry up his back. Before he could react, a sharp pain stabbed at the back of his neck, and then everything went black and Uglutz felt nothing ever again.

Whew! Klippiwick thought as he jumped from the collapsing orc body after withdrawing his blade from where it silently had severed the orc’s spinal cord from what passed for a brain. I don’t know what’s worse, the smell of the liquor on the beast, or its unwashed body.

The plan had been so clear and simple when it had formed in the warrior mouse’s mind. If these orcs were like most taller beings he knew, they would totally dismiss the presence of mice on the ground, or running through their towers and along their hallways. Most other races tended to consider his own noble people as vermin and too weak or small to cause any harm, much less engender any respect. It was an opinion he had every intention of changing for not only himself, but for all mouse-kind. He would not let his children or any descendant suffer the same indignities his people had suffered for being so small if he could help it.

It was an irony that those who, in all truth, were their natural predators should also be the perfect partners in the military endeavor. The eagles flew them fast towards the citadel where they carefully deposited his strike force, landing a few at a time so as not to arouse suspicion. In all, fifty of his warriors had infiltrated the fortress with orders to move as quickly as possible and silently slay every orc they could find. In addition, his majesty King Edmond waited nearby for an eagle to carefully bring him in to sabotage the gates when the time was right and lock them in an open position if possible. The mice were more than willing to do this themselves, but Klippiwick had conceded that the mechanisms of the doors were likely too large and heavy for his warriors to move on their own.

Silently and swiftly he moved on to his next target just a little ways down the parapet walkway who had not seen his compatriot drop like a stone. Like with the other, Klippiwick could smell the disgustingly overpowering stench of alcohol and unwashed, dirty orc from a great distance with his rodent nostrils. He was confident that this beast too would be so inebriated as to be totally oblivious to the threat his presence posed until it was too late.

He was right.

This is almost too easy. Klippiwick thought to himself, considering it almost a mercy to the foul thing to be putting it out of its misery so quickly.

Around the fortress, orcs began dropping inexplicably and without warning as siege engines went unmanned, and archers fell, spilling their quivers across stone and wood. The alarm was not however raised until the fat overlord, a troll like olog of an orc named Getzler decided to uncharacteristically leave his “throne room” (as he liked to think of it), and wander outside to pleasure himself by tormenting some of his underlings.

Except all those underlings he saw were lying motionless on the ground. All around the grounds.

“What is going on here?!!” He screamed in anger. “Call out the guards!! We are under attack!!!” He shouted. But no one came running. No one responded.

He felt something clawing and scurrying up his back and across his body. Immediately Getzler began to try and swat whatever unseen wraith had tried to take him away, but he couldn’t find anything to hit. And then there were stabbing pains in the back of his neck and his temples again and again, and another pain began at one point on his overly fat neck and before he knew what was happening crossed over to the other side, leaving black orc blood spilling from his throat.

The orc overlord clutched at his throat and the last thing he saw were several mice holding bloodied swords looking back at him to make certain their work was done. He then saw nothing at all as his vision went black as the abyss.

* * *

Just as the last light of the day was extinguished, the remaining Narnian forces arrived at the orc fortress of Shindram. They were met with an open gate, and a smiling king with a mouse captain respectfully poised on his shoulder. The two had apparently discussed who would speak first beforehand, for when the high king arrived with the surviving army, Klippiwick stood on King Edmond’s shoulder and, bowing respectfully to the high king reported, “The fortress is secure, your majesty. As far as my warriors are able to determine, there are no orcs left alive within its walls. As ordered.”

And then, from just beyond and behind the high king who then stepped aside with a weary but appreciative look on his own face, a deep, leonine voice replied, “Well done, warriors. Well done.”

Both King Edmond and Klippiwick then dropped to one knee immediately before the True King of Narnia. His brother, the high king said nothing, but deferred to the Lion as Aslan spoke. There was a sadness, and a trauma reflected in Peter’s eyes in addition to the victory. Edmond needed not ask his brother what disturbed him so. They had won the day, but Peter’s face had revealed in no uncertain terms that it hadn’t been without cost.

They made camp before the walls of Shindram where they rested and mourned their dead. As much of a count as they could take was made, and they estimated that they had lost close to fifteen hundred of their own people to arrows, orc blades, and the airborne terror that had been what Sir Eric called a Nazgul, a “ringwraith.” 

When dawn broke, they packed up their camp, gathered everything flammable and explosive they could find from among the orc’s supplies, and set the fortress to the torch in a great conflagration before setting forth once more towards their goal. The fires burned and burned for days like a beacon announcing to anyone and everyone that they were there, they had defeated a ringwraith, and they were not stopping.


	8. Chapter 8

The waves were gentle which lapped against the green cliffs and rocks that day as the knight looked out across its expansive waters. It was mid afternoon, though the sun still lay behind the intense cloud cover across the sky. The Sea of Nurnen was vast, and oddly appeared more clear than Sir Eric would have attributed to any body of water within the vile lands of Mordor. The smell of it was nothing like the sea air on the coast of Belfalas where his home lie. That was clean, invigorating, salty air, the same as he encountered near Cair Paravel. This air had a brackish scent to it mixed with the stench of fish and algae one would expect from such a lake. The water itself while drinkable enough was also bitter, though not truly salty like those ocean coastlines he was used to.

After the defeat of the orc forces at Lithlad, the Narnian army headed south until the coastline of the landlocked sea where the volcanic ash from Orodruin, called in the common tongue, “Mt. Doom,” had accumulated over the centuries to where the ground was extremely fertile for planting crops. They had encountered two more small companies of orcs en route which had been more easily dispatched by the Narnians than the forces which they had met at the river. They saw no more nazgul in the sky the two days they were on the march, having reached the sea by the end of the second day.

Aslan had only remained with them until the morning they set the fires to the orc stronghold, and then he was simply gone, without explanation or warning. This didn’t seem to be so unusual to the Narnians as it was to the Gondorian knight. King Edmond had only remarked about it that, “It’s his way. Sometimes he remains for weeks, sometimes you don’t see him for decades or longer. He comes and goes as he pleases, and when it suits him.”

Aslan… Sir Eric hadn’t spoken with the Great Lion himself. He had only seen him from a distance. He had watched with mouth agape as Narnia’s one True King had impossibly ripped the nazgul from the sky and destroyed it, suffering not so much as a loss of breath from it. And after the battle, the Great Lion spoke with the kings almost exclusively all that evening before they turned in. But even from that distance, Sir Eric could feel what could only be described as benevolent, majestic power radiating from him, like no ruler he had ever encountered before. When Aslan walked among them, there was simply no question as to who was in command, not just of the army, not just of even the nation of Narnia, but of nature and even existence itself. One felt as though all the Lion needed do was speak, or even breath, and whatever he desired would come into being. Sir Eric could not help but bend the knee as Aslan passed by him in discussion with the high king and his brother.

He only overheard snippets of the conversation about there being potential friends and allies to them even there in Mordor. There had been mention of the slaves which worked the fields around the sea of Nurn for the orcs food supplies, and another ancient spirit of nature which made her home on the Isle of Nurn off the north coast of the sea. The Lion’s words to the kings, “You are not alone here.” resonated within him as if he had been the one to whom they were intended.

The army met some of those slaves working Mordor’s fields upon arrival at the sea. All of them had been of the race of man like himself, and many were fellow Gondorians, descendants of settlers from decades or even centuries gone by, though some hailed from among the easterlings as well. They had been in chains, and overseen by a small force of orc taskmasters that did not survive their first and last encounters with the army of Narnia.

Sir Eric had never seen men so defeated, so beaten in his life. The physical scars of the orcish whips were nothing compared to the emotional anguish evident in their eyes. Even when their horrid masters had been put to the sword, they looked confused, and unable to discern that their captivity was at an end. It had only been after much encouragement from the kings and captains that they understood their torment had ended.

The knight looked out over the bluish green, bitter waters still haunted by those eyes, contemplating what kind of horrors could so break a man, as well as the horrors his own eyes had witnessed inflicted.

The contrast of this coastline with his own homeland could not have been more stark. Belfalas was dotted with neighborhoods of Numenorean architecture, gleaming towers, and noble finery. Tall ships sailed into its harbors and ports bearing the wealth of the world. Here there was only the squalor of ramshackle huts and shacks meant for the enslaved men and their families whom the orc only saw as more breeding stock like cattle. The fields around the Sea of Nurnen grew grain, though whether or not the orcs actually used it for bread or just to ferment into their viscous grog was still up for debate. The men were only allowed the barest gleanings to feed themselves, their wives, and their children.

The children… This was perhaps the most heartbreaking of the sights he saw. He had certainly seen poverty before, but not like this. Not children of men living in such filth with nothing. And as he passed through those fields and through what could only generously be called a shanty-town, looking at those children it was clear not all of their fathers were men. 

Sir Eric of course knew, like most men in Middle-Earth, that such unholy half-breeds existed. In his lifetime, he had seen them as well, though never openly within the borders of Gondor. Those he had encountered before had been among Mordor’s patrols, and among its slave labor. Those had always been full grown adults. He hadn’t thought twice about ending such orc-men. Of course, he also hadn’t given thought to where such abominations came from, and how they came into life.

Their faces, eyes, and ears betrayed a more vile and fiendish breeding, born from violations of daughters of men of which they themselves were innocent. As the Narnians might put it, there appeared to be no sons of Adam among these, regardless of their forced maternity. Even at that age, there was a cunning, a twisted evil in their eyes which perverted the presumed innocence of infancy and childhood. Still, they were but children.

When they had been brought to the high king’s attention, he looked as though someone had run a sword through his belly. No one had been expecting them, having seen no orc young before that point. King Edmond’s reaction had been utter sorrow, knowing Aslan’s command.

The order had been to put every orc to the sword, male or female, young or old.

His eyes streamed with tears at the memory of these being rounded up for the slaughter, separated from the fully mannish children, earlier in the day. Few of their mothers fought for them, but a handful did, devolving into total devastation as the demon spawned infants were torn from them, and it made it all the harder. Screaming, biting, kicking, fighting for their very lives, and terrified like any child would be. And he was not the only one to shed tears over the deaths of these half-orcs that day. The high king forced himself to watch as he gave the order, rivulets of salt water running down his own cheeks as it was carried out. The junior tetrarch could not bear it, and would not be present. Their black, orcish blood spilled on the ground as the minotaurs put them down swiftly and as painlessly as possible with both axes and daggers. None of the other Narnians could bring themselves to carry out the executions of ones so young, and many questioned the need privately, but would not openly challenge Aslan’s instructions. When it was done, many had a hard time looking the somber minotaurs, who themselves were stoic and not unaffected, in the eye afterwards.

“What more atrocities must be committed to purge the land of the dark lord’s stain of orc filth?” Sir Eric wondered aloud, rubbing the palm of his hand against his eyes to try and stem the flow. All he could think about was his own children, and all he could hear were the screams of the bereaved mothers.

“What more indeed?” He heard a woman’s alto, lilting voice nearby. It was so out of place, so foreign to the military campaign he had found himself on that he immediately turned in surprise towards where the sound had come.

Against the sea on the rocks nearby stood tall a thin woman of highly refined features and sharp sapphire eyes in elvish gray cloak, and gray clothing plated with intricately forged armor like feathers or scales. A cowl covered all her head but her face, though he could see wisps of white golden hair promising a wealth of more beneath the cowl. Twin swords of elven make adorned her back, and the callouses on her delicate hands, indicated they were not for appearances sake. On the index finger of her left hand she bore a silver ring with bright blue glowing elvish inscription. He had seen few women like her before, and they all had ears that ended in sharp tapered points.

“What do you here, of all the most hellish places, lady?” Sir Eric asked, quickly trying to dry the rest of his tears as to not seem unmanly in her presence.

“I could ask the same, knight of Gondor.” The elf woman replied. “It is a bold army that challenges the power of Sauron on his own back doorstep so openly. I have tracked this host which travels and fights under the lion’s banner for the last four days. They have never been seen in Middle-Earth before. Who are they, and why are they here, Gondorian?”

Elves had their own reasons and methods, but he had never known or heard of one of the elder race with evil intent. As a rule, they were faithful and loyal to Eru Iluvatar, at least in name if not always in action. They could be cheerful and worthy companions, as well as skilled and deadly fighters. That one should just appear from nowhere in the middle of Sauron’s dominion, his “back doorstep” as she had put it, brought many questions of his own.

“I will answer your question, if you answer mine, lady elf.” The knight responded. “Your presence is just as unexpected as ours in a land dominated by enemies from all quarters.”

The elf woman then gave a half smile and answered, “Fair enough. I am Eltariel, the Blade of Galadriel who rules in fair Lothlorien. I have wandered these lands since the fall of Minas Ithil on her orders to hunt and contain the nazgul. I was tracking the movement of one such when impossibly I saw it fall from the sky, attacked and killed by what looked to be a lion like no other I have ever seen; a lion which managed to kill the unkillable.” She left the last sentence to hang in the air to emphasize the extraordinary nature of the event. “And under this lion’s banner I have not only seen the most unusual of armies march, I have seen even mice serve and fight like ghost assassins to render an entire fortress destroyed. Now you, knight. Explain these miracles to me.”

“And to the Lady you serve as well, no doubt. There are few who have not heard the name of Galadriel either in song or story. It would surprise me greatly if she were not somehow aware of this very conversation.” Sir Eric replied.

Eltariel said nothing in reply, there was no point affirming or denying his correct suspicion, but stood there waiting expectantly for him to give an answer.

“I am Sir Eric of Belfalas,” he replied, “and this great host comes from a country so far to the east it borders the great ocean itself as do Eriador and the gray havens in the west. They are from a land called by them ‘Narnia,’ and the Great Lion you saw slay the ringwraith is their ultimate and True King, called only Aslan. They march here on his instruction and information that Isildur’s ring, the ring of power cut from Sauron’s own hand by the shards of Narsil, has been found and is being quietly slipped into Mordor to be cast into Mt. Doom’s furnace to be destroyed. They mean to draw the attention of the bulk of Sauron’s own remaining forces in the black lands around Barad-dur away from the path of the ring bearer to achieve this.”

Surprise and amazement flew across the elf woman’s face as she briefly glanced at the strange jewelry on her own hand before returning her gaze to the man in front of her. “I have walked this land since before you drew breath as a babe, sir knight, and I have heard nothing of this plan. Whoever this ringbearer might be is completely unknown to me, and he must either be a warrior of great skill and courage, or a great fool.”

At this the knight allowed himself a smile, and then a bit of a laugh at the thought. “Indeed. I know not who it is, or of what race. But I do not doubt the source of the intelligence. It comes from the Great Lion himself whom you and I both saw slay the nazgul as though a spring calf.”

“And the slaughter of the half-orc infants?” Eltariel questioned, “what great sin did they commit other than their parentage?”

“This too was the Lion’s command. No orc is to be left alive with our passing, young or old, male or female. They are to be fully purged from our path.” He told her, whatever trace of mirth which had been on his face disappearing once more. “It was not done lightly, or without remorse, but it was obeyed.”

“Without mercy?” She questioned, still clearly disturbed.

“Only the mercy of a swift death.” The knight confirmed. “They suffered no more than that necessity.”

Eltariel considered this, as well as the seriousness of the knight’s disposition. There was pain in his eyes from it, a memory he could not unsee and could not fully justify or comfort himself from even though his own hand had not wielded the blade.

“So the time of the orcs is to meet a swift and total end at this Aslan’s orders?” Her tone of voice changed. “That is ambitious.”

“It is. But before the battle at Lithlad, I would not have thought a ringwraith could be struck down so easily either.” He told her.

“That is true enough.” She conceded, many thoughts racing behind her deep blue eyes. Then, as though receiving instruction from some unheard voice, she told him, “Bring me to this army’s generals. I would speak with them on my lady’s behalf.”

“As you wish, Lady Eltariel.” Sir Eric responded.

* * *

Queen Susan received the most recent list of casualties and her brothers’ reports from the campaign by way of the griffin’s dispatches. She read every name they could gather, being sure to do so, and to pass them along to their families with her sincerest condolences and shared grief. She did this with poise, patience, control, and grace alongside her sister, Queen Lucy, who oversaw the return of those not yet dead, but too wounded or maimed to continue the fight. These continued to trickle in by wagon or horses dedicated to that effort from the west.

Once her royal business was concluded that afternoon, she politely excused herself from the throne room, made her way slowly and with dignity to her apartments, entered and then shut the doors behind her. Only when she was entirely alone did she allow herself to break down into great, uncontrolled wracking sobs, collapsing onto her bed, for all those families who would not see their loved ones again, and for all those who returned with less of their bodies than they had gone to war with. Her sobs were for them, and for her brothers, grateful beyond words that their names had not been included, and the letters were still in Peter’s handwriting and not another’s.

She pulled one of her pillows from her bed, and screamed her rage into it. She raged at the orcs for their vile violence which necessitated it. She raged at the man of the west who had brought this war upon them albeit unintentionally. She raged at her brothers for terrifying her that she might receive a letter about their deaths, or that it might happen and she might receive no news at all. She raged at herself for being so scared for them all.

As she lay there, the face of a woman not unlike her own reflection came to her mind. She remembered scenes of this woman doing the same upon hearing news of another war, years ago and far away. She too would accept the news stoicly, do what needed to be done in front of her children, and continue on with a “stiff upper lip.” But then when she thought her children were not looking, she would dissolve into tears. When she thought they could not hear, she would allow herself the release of the sobbing in hers and her husband’s bedroom. The husband who had not yet returned from said war.

The memories were fragmented, and the images she could not reconcile with her life in Narnia. They were from a different world, with different rules, and different countries. It was almost as if from a dream, and yet she knew it was more than that. She knew that the woman was her own mother. She knew her name, Helen.

Is this how my mother felt? Susan wondered upon the realization. She had no idea where “Helen” was, or even if she was still alive. But in that moment, she felt closer to this mysterious memory-woman than she had ever been.

* * *

High King Peter was not a drinking man. True to his word, he had shared a pint of beer with both dwarves and minotaurs upon their victory at Lithlad. He hadn’t spent much time with them, and was still uncomfortable around them, but he had started to develop a respect for both races where their strengths and talents lie. Outside of this, he might occasionally have a cup of wine with his dinner, though he was not fond of the taste unless it was mulled and hot during Christmas. He was not otherwise, however, a drinking man by nature. But after the events of earlier in the day, after witnessing his orders being carried out, he sat at a table in his command tent having finished off two mugs of dwarven beer and still nursing his third trying to dull the pain of the memory.

It wasn’t working.

What have I become? He asked himself. Again, he had tried to remind himself that they were orcs. It had not been his instructions, but Aslan’s, that all orcs were to be put to death. But that did not comfort him, or keep him from having to replay the scenes in his mind.

He had forced himself to be there. He was the high king. It was his responsibility to see it done, even if he didn’t wield the knife himself. He envied his brother who took his leave to be elsewhere, and did not hold it against him. But he would not shirk his duty. Those slaves that had watched the slaughter did so with less emotion than he had felt. Even the mothers that he had seen had been seemingly without pity for them, though he had heard from the minotaur captain of others who did not give up their half-orc bastards up willingly.

Every orc. He reminded himself. Every orc.

Outside of this, the arrival at the Sea of Nurnen had seen much less conflict than their previous two days. He had hoped to remain for at least one more night to give his troops time to rest and recover before their march to the northwest where, he was told, the pass into the black lands lay. The liberation of the human slaves and the granaries from their orc taskmasters had provided the army with grain which could be added to their own food stores. Of course, Peter would not leave those sons of Adam and daughters of Eve with nothing. They would leave more than enough for those slaves who had worked to grow it, and deprive the orc armies of their own supplies.

“Your majesty?” A familiar voice called out to him from the entry to his tent.

Peter considered the owner of the voice for a few brief moments. The truth was, he wasn’t inclined to talk to anyone about anything official or related to kingly duties just then. He himself didn’t feel very royal or dignified at all. He considered sending the knight away, but then reconsidered it. Perhaps having someone to commiserate with would help.

“Yes, enter Sir Eric.” Peter finally called back. “Join me. Pour yourself a cup of beer if you’re so inclined. The dwarves have been generous with what is left of their reserve.” The high king offered.

“Thank you, your majesty, I just might accept.” The knight responded candidly. Then he added, “Your majesty, I have brought an ambassador of sorts. From the elves.” Sir Eric announced as he stepped further into the tent.

“From the mysterious elves I have heard so much about?” The high king replied, surprised and just a little annoyed. He stood up from where he had been sitting, quickly checking himself to assume his royal persona as much as he could muster at that point. “Please, show her in.”

The knight then entered into the tent completely, approaching where the king sat at the table which had been set up. Three more chairs had been arranged around it, and there were just as many more mugs on the table near an open cask which smelled of hops and barley.

The elf woman was armed, wearing seemingly delicate and intricately detailed plates of armor over her gray clothes. She pulled back a gray cowl from her head to reveal long, light blond hair braided up high. Her poise suggested nobility and grace, and her deep blue eyes suggested a life with years that far surpassed his own, and had seen perhaps darker things than he would ever experience.

“Your majesty, I present to you Eltariel of Lothlorien, the Blade of Galadriel.” The knight introduced her.

“Greetings, Eltariel.” Peter told her. “I am High King Peter of Narnia, and I welcome you to our camp, such as it may be.”

“Your majesty,” Eltariel began, curtsying politely as she spoke, “I bring greetings from the Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn, rulers of my people.”

“I accept your greetings, Lady Eltariel, and offer my hospitality such as I can offer under the present circumstances.” Peter replied as sincerely as he could. “Please, won’t you both sit? Were we at home in Cair Paravel, I could offer you a banquet, quarters, and whatever else you might require. As it is, this beer is the best I can offer until the cooks are done with preparing supper for us all. I hope you will forgive me. I don’t normally drink, especially while it is still daylight, but the pressures of kingship today have been especially… unforgiving.”

“So I observed.” Eltariel responded, a hint of empathy in her voice, and, accepting the king’s offer of hospitality, she poured herself a mug of the frothy brew. She put it to her lips and drank it down in one gulp before putting the mug on the table and wiping the froth from her mouth. “I see dwarven beer holds the same quality in your country that it does in ours.” She remarked. “Though my people tend to prefer sweet wine to beer.”

Peter gave the beginnings of a smile at that remark, the first time he had done so that day, set at ease by her less than formal manner in the martial setting. She appeared to be one that was comfortable in a military camp and among soldiers. He knew that his current state of affairs at their first meeting would certainly not bring the epithet “the magnificent,” as some kind souls had previously granted him, to anyone’s mind. But the elf woman did not appear put off by it.

“So, to what do I owe the honor and pleasure of your company, Lady Eltariel?” Peter asked.

“First, let me assure you that we have the same goal, your people and I. The final defeat of Sauron, and the destruction of his forces.” She began. “I understand there is a plan in motion to accomplish this very thing.”

The high king nodded, waiting for her to proceed.

“You wish to draw the bulk of Sauron’s armies away from Orodruin and Barad-dur, yes?” She asked.

“Yes. That is the plan.” Peter replied. “We need to clear a path for the ringbearer to accomplish his mission.”

“You will need to get his attention. Moreso than you already have. After his defeat at the Pelennor Fields, he is garrisoning all of his forces behind the Black Gate. The dark lord lost hundreds of thousands before the walls of Minas Tirith, but he still has easily another hundred thousand in the black lands protecting his strongholds.” She went on.

“This much we knew though without so much detail. It was thought that a sizable force through his less fortified eastern flank would draw him out.” Peter replied.

“I have watched Mordor for hundreds of years.” The elf replied thoughtfully. “I have fought Sauron’s forces. Dealt with them. Seen how the enemy thinks. If he deems you enough of a threat, he will send forces, no doubt. But he will not send them all. He has enough troops yet remaining in Gorgoroth alone to meet you three to one on the battlefield with just as many remaining fortified in between the Black Gate and Orodruin. He is a patient strategist. He has time on his side, or so he thinks. No, you will only draw maybe half of his forces to crush you while the rest remain unmoved unless...” She paused, still considering her next words carefully.

“Unless what?” The high king asked.

“Unless you get his attention with something that he wants desperately. Something he would send every last orc to obtain if only he knew where to find it.” She told him, bringing up her left hand and spreading her fingers before the high king to make the unusual ring she wore even more apparent. As she did, both king and knight noticed that the normal ring and little finger shone with a strange, ethereal energy like magic. And then it became apparent that there was something not usual with them at all.

“What is that?” The high king asked her, really noticing the silver ring for the first time.

She withdrew her hand, but did not hide the ring which adorned it as she said, “Centuries ago, a second ring of power was forged in the fires of Orodruin with the intent of challenging Sauron’s power, a ring like his own but without his malice and corruption. A perfect ring. That challenge nearly succeeded, but was defeated at the last moment, and I barely escaped with it, keeping it from Sauron’s grasp. This ring is all but unknown outside of these lands, as is the original bearer of it who was lost to the grip of the darkness.” There was a personal sadness and regret in her voice at this. “So have those who know of it kept this secret from the rest of Middle Earth. But the dark lord knows of its existence, and he knows I am its surviving bearer. If he cannot have the ring he forged, he would do anything to obtain this one, send any number of troops. Show me to him, and he will come. Show him this ring, and he will send the full wrath of Mordor upon you to obtain it.”

Peter listened to her intently, contemplating what she was saying and all of its implications. He was quiet after she finished, and resumed sipping his warm beer.

“A second ring of power? Equal to Sauron’s own?” Sir Eric said, incredulous and angry. “We could have used this power to destroy the enemy, we and your people. We could have razed Mordor to the ground centuries ago and none of us would now be having this conversation.”

“We tried, Sir Knight.” The elf woman replied, her voice weary with the memory. “We raised armies within Mordor the likes of which you have never seen. We fought Sauron himself at the height of Barad-dur. We almost defeated him. We had him. And then… it was all gone. There was a reason why Sauron waited this long to strike Gondor with the force he now has. He was still recovering from our secret war against him. A war which saw a good man corrupted by the darkness, and which allowed your children to be born, and you to be able to sleep at night. But that route failed us as it would have failed your people. No. The only way to truly defeat Sauron is to destroy the ring to which his life is bound. You destroy Sauron’s ring, you destroy the dark lord forever.” There was a fire which rose in her voice as she spoke. It began tired and weary, but grew into a passionate flame as she ended. Her eyes were lit with the memories of all that she had fought for, and those that she had lost in that struggle.

“May I see it?” The high king asked, stretching out his hand expectantly.

In spite of his seemingly mild intoxication, the elf woman sensed no malice or ambition from the king, only a curiosity, and the weariness of wearing his crown even when it was not physically on his brow. Perhaps unwisely, but sensing she could trust the human with her charge, she removed the ring from her hand and placed it in his palm. As she did so, the ghostly fingers disappeared, and were replaced with long healed, scarred stubs.

The king held the ring in his hand and stared at it, contemplatively. “So this is what would draw his attention. You say it contains a power to rival his own. A power to command and conquer nations, and bring the world to one’s knees. It seems such a little thing to wield so much, and trouble so many.”

“Your majesty, with that ring, we could bring all of Mordor to its knees, and need not lose a single life more.” Sir Eric told him, also staring at it.

“If what the lady says is true, Sir Knight.” Peter replied, still fascinated by it. “What does the inscription say, lady elf? I cannot read it.”

Eltariel, becoming more concerned by the moment at the human holding the ring, and beginning to regret her decision to allow him to examine it replied, “It is in the ancient tongue of my people. It means, ‘One ring to rule them all. One ring to find them. One ring to bring them all, and in the brightness bind them.’ The one who forged it left it clean of Sauron’s original foul verbage.”

Peter examined it, fascinated for several minutes more. He then stretched out his hand, and gave it back to the elf, saying, “Here. It looks better on your hand, Lady Eltariel, than it ever would on mine I’m afraid. I’ve never been much for jewelry.” He gave her a reassuring smile. To the knight he said, “I’ve no desire for power, Sir Eric, much less conquest. I desire a world where war isn’t a necessity, where mothers don’t have to worry about their children not coming home, where disputes are settled over good food and good wine, and where peace is a given. I only wish to go home once all this is over, and learn to live with myself again after today. You heard the lady. They tried using it your way, and failed. I’d like to think failure is a great teacher. It tells us when not to repeat the same mistakes others have made.”

The elf woman replaced it on her left hand, causing her missing fingers to reappear as she flexed them. She nodded at the high king, a new respect for the man rising within her.

“If you are willing, you will accompany us northwest, and we will announce ourselves to all of Mordor. We will wave this ring in front of Sauron’s face until he can no longer stand it. With Aslan’s blessing, we will clear a path for the other ringbearer miles wide.” The high king told her. “And then Sauron will fall, and we can all rebuild our lives.”


	9. Chapter 9

The fortress on the Sea of Nurnen was not dissimilar from its counterpart in Lithlad in construction, though it terms of location it might have even been considered pleasant in comparison with that ruined desert city. It might not have been inconceivable that orc warchiefs or captains in Sauron’s favor would come there on holiday to get away from the stresses of their brutal regimen, treating themselves to flavored grog and massages. Such were the renegade thoughts which passed through the High King’s mind as he observed the citadel from the shore of the opposing coastline around midday.

The orc stronghold of Sharkhburz resided on a large island in the expansive, bitter lake, on the northeastern coast. That fact alone made it difficult to mount an assault. The north side of the orc fortress was sheer cliffs into the water. From the aerial reconnaissance the griffins had provided, there was only one gate into the stronghold, and this faced the southern expanse of the island. Outside of those gates was a small town of various storehouses, manufactories, and slave houses. Had he been the orcish overlord of Sharkhburz, Peter felt he’d have good reason to feel secure behind its thick stone walls. Capture of the fortress would be brutal and punishing for any force.

Capture, however, was not their mandate.

The bulk of the Narnian army rested on the northern shore of the Sea of Nurnen, a day’s march from the gates of Ennyn Ur into Gorgoroth, the blackened lands where lay Mt. Doom and Barad-dur. They intended to march northwards at dawn on the morrow, but first, as it was pointed out by both their new elven ally, Eltariel, and Sir Eric, they needed to neutralize what forces might follow to their rear and come at them from behind. Beyond this and their mandate to butcher every orc they came across, there was another reason for not ignoring the island.

Before he disappeared once more, Aslan had informed his brother and he of another potential ally in their war against these monsters and their monstrous lord. An ancient spirit of wild nature that had called the forests of the island home for millennia. If one were to impress her, and inquire politely, one might find in her a powerful friend against Mordor’s hosts.

Peter observed the fortress intently, having received no word since their first incursion by stealth around dawn. The courage and skill which their company of talking mice had demonstrated at Lithlad had been called on again. However, the strategy employed would have to be altered. This overlord seemed to have no desire to throw all of his troops into combat or evacuate his island in the hopes of destroying the Narnians. He was apparently not as big of a fool as the previous orc commander. As courageous as the mice were, neither Peter nor Edmond were going to task them with taking down thousands of orcs on their own. 

Next to him, Edmond waited as well, adding his own keen eyes.

“Do you think they’re ready yet?” Edmond asked him.

“They’ll give the signal when they’re clear, Ed. We don’t want to risk Klippiwick’s company or Eltariel’s life by being impatient.” Peter responded.

“No, of course not. I just wish I was there with them to see what was happening for myself.” His co-ruler replied.

“As do I. You know I don’t like others risking their lives where I cannot. But we would just be getting in the way with their work. And both Aslan and the elf woman mentioned that Carnan might be more willing to heed talking animals as Narnia’s representatives than sons of Adam, or anyone other than elves with two legs instead of four.” Peter told him.

King Edmond nodded, knowing all of what he spoke, having heard all the reasoning behind it before. Still, he wished he was there with them. He turned his eyes back to the island, looking for the sign which they had agreed upon.

Like before, the mice would infiltrate the fortress accompanied by Eltariel who could move lightly and gracefully, and could remain unseen seemingly at will. They would focus on the quiet assassination of the guards on the towers and walls, as well as the trolls who manned the heavy ballistas. Once this was accomplished, Eltariel would sabotage the gates so that they would not open. Where the mice would be able to escape under the gates and Eltariel could scale the walls with ease, the majority of the orcs would be trapped inside. Eltariel’s final act would be to silently move Sharkhburz’s barrels of grog into more optimal positions for the Narnians’ purposes.

The second incursion into the island waited patiently behind the kings next to the griffins and eagles who agreed to carry them. The kings’ history with Narnia’s talking wolves was checkered to be sure, but there was no question that they could be vicious fighters in their own right. It was Eltariel who had suggested the use of them against the orcs because of their physical similarities to the beasts which the fiends used for guard dogs and riding mounts. They were also fast on their feet, and could cover large amounts of ground in a short amount of time. There was a concern however that the talking wolves of Narnia were larger and heavier than the less intelligent variety of timber wolves which could also be found, and made more so by the chain mail which had been secured to their canine torsos. The griffins however assured the kings that they would have no trouble carrying them across the channel to the island for their mission.

Behind the wolves and the griffins waiting to carry them waited the eagles, and the cargo of bombs which were to be their payload. They would strike the fortress only, leaving the outlying structures and stragglers to the mice, Eltariel, and their wolfish reinforcements. If all went well, they would prove their intentions and resolve to Carnan by cleansing her island of the orcs’ presence completely.

Then, Edmond saw their prearranged signal. “There, Peter, do you see it?!” He exclaimed. “They’re clear!”

“I see it, Ed!” Peter told him, his voice assuming a tone of relief. He then turned to the flight of griffins and their passengers and gestured their clearance to fly. “Drop them on the east side, away from the fortress!” He called to them. “Keep clear of the citadel!”

The griffins took off, the wolves held securely with their talons as they crossed the channel. It would take several crossings to drop them all, and several more to return everyone once all was said and done. If the mice had not dealt with every potential archer or watchman, their plan would fold. It also hinged on the belief of the orcs that the Narnians would want to capture their fortress intact, and not burn it to the ground. The variables for failure were numerous.

It took the better part of an hour to deliver all of the wolves to their drop off points before the griffins returned to join their eagle compatriots, grasping the dwarven made bombs once again into their talons for lethal air delivery. They were all alert, waiting for their king’s signal.

Peter turned to look at his brother, and then nodded. Edmond then turned to their companies of air scouts and raised his right hand before dropping it sharply. “Fly!” He shouted.

* * *

Orgaz stumbled through the central courtyard of the fortress that afternoon looking for a good mug of grog, or a bad mug of grog. Truth was, if it was rancid grog, he’d swill that too. Of course, it was hard to tell the difference sometimes, grog being what it was and all.

Unlike others of his kind, Orgaz had little to complain about, he felt. All things considered, he’d had it pretty easy compared to most. His being posted to Sharkhburz where it wasn’t either too hot or too cold, the grog flowed freely, and there were plenty of women among the man-slaves to slake his lust on if he so desired was like a gift he’d been all too ready to welcome with open arms.

Life was uncommonly good for an orc in Sharkhburz, as long as you didn’t go too far inland on the island. Most of his kind that ventured into the ancient forests didn’t venture back out again. That was fine with him. He was a sand and surf kind of orc anyway.

“Hmm.” he looked around for the barrels in the storehouse near the walls. They weren’t where they were supposed to be. “What maggotsack moron moved the grog? I’ll have his brains for my supper!” he exclaimed in outrage. One did not get in between Orgaz and his grog.

Orgaz left the empty storehouse disgusted and in a foul mood compared with his previous one. He meant to find the wealth of grog and the thief what had made off with it immediately. As he looked around, this way and that, it turned out he didn’t need to go very far at all. Someone had taken the barrels and set them at different points up against the walls and buildings.

Orgaz scratched his head for a few seconds wondering why anyone would do that except… “Well, well...” He said aloud, his mood changing to something more cheerful again. “Maybe the warchiefs’ve decided we don’t need to walk as far to get it anymore.” Then another thought occurred to him which gave him a little bit of panic in what he might have forgotten. “Or maybe the overlord’s having a birthday and I done forgot… again.”

The orc contemplated which one it might be before being inexorably drawn to the nearest barrel across the way just a little. As he made his way over to it, he got halfway before he noticed a large flock of birds high in the sky passing over the fortress. These weren’t no seagulls like he’d catch for supper sometimes neither. These birds was huge, and there were hundreds of them. He’d never seen so many birds all at once.

Then the birds started dropping what looked like shiny eggs all above the fortress. Orgaz stood transfixed as the first shiny egg dropped to the ground next to the barrel he had just been about to imbibe from. There was a loud explosion and the next thing the orc knew he was on his back with a splitting headache and small fragments of wood and metal protruding from his arms and chest. His vision was blurry as he tried to see.

“What the…?” He asked himself out loud, holding his head, bleeding black oily blood from a wound he didn’t know how he had gotten.

All around him was smoke and raging fire. Orcs ran around frantically trying to douse the flames with water, but every time they did, they ended up pouring more grog onto the infernos instead, causing them to spread farther, faster. Explosions continued to ring out around him as the demon birds dropped their hellish payloads across the fortress. Fire raged from the structures and flames roared through stone buildings and hallways like maniacal furnaces. The main keep, the overlord’s throne room and personal chambers was ablaze like a torch.

“Oh hell!” Orgaz swore as he forced himself to get up and get moving. He made for the front gates to get out of there, running as hard and as fast as he could, ignoring the pain of the shrapnal wounds. He reached them and slammed into them, trying to force them open. Alongside him, other panicked orcs joined him, pushing on them as well as pushing, but there was no use, they wouldn’t budge.

“Unlock the gates!!!” Orgaz called out in the Black Speech. “Unlock the gates or we all burn!!!”

Orgaz continued to pound on them alongside the others, but either no one was smart enough to try and release them, or they couldn’t be released. He could feel the flames grow hotter against his back and knew he was going to die if he stayed there.

“Not this orc.” He muttered to himself and, tearing away from the gate, he spied the entry stairs to the nearest watch post on the walls. He ran for them, followed by a dozen of his fellows who saw him take off and realized what his plan was.

Orgaz ran up the steps, the heat and explosions providing more than enough motivation for him to keep going. He reached the parapets of the wall and then jumped over the side, quickly thinking to roll so as not to break his legs upon landing. Not all of the orcs who followed his example were so quick of thought as he, and landed unable to get up again. The fires from the fortress began to spread to the outbuildings nearest by, and Orgaz continued to put distance between himself and the citadel, running into the town of support buildings.

Once in the town, he stopped to catch his breath and look back at the raging inferno which had been the mighty fortress of Sharkhburz. 

“What kind of power could do that?” He wondered aloud and in astonishment. He’d never seen such weapons and tactics used before, and was certain it had to be some kind of dark sorcery even Sauron himself hadn’t thought of.

Behind him and to the right, he heard the growling of a warg. 

Good. He thought. I’m going to need a mount when I get back to the mainland. Some strange god or demon has smiled on me.

He turned to see a huge black warg wearing what looked like chain mail across its back and a crown of plate to protect its head emerge from behind a building. It was then followed by two more, a brown and a gray which converged to its right and left. Their teeth were bared as they growled and stared hungrily, angrily at the orc.

“Get back you filth!” He swiped at them recklessly with his hand. “Don’t you know one of your masters when you see one?!”

“I don’t think so, orc scum.” The black warg replied with a deep growly voice in the common speech.

The shocked look of surprise was etched permanently on Orgaz’s face as the black Narnian wolf leaped and tore out his throat. As the orc’s corpse hit the ground, the black spit out the black blooded flesh in disgust, “Ugh… Orc meat is disgusting. It tastes like rancid droppings basted in dwarf piss.”

One of his pack companions snickered, “You have experience with that there, Captain?”

The black was about to answer, but then thought better of it. “Never mind. It’s a story for another time. You two, head to the walls and check for survivors. You know what to do if you find any.”

“And you?” The gray asked before he took off for the wall.

“The fire’s spread to the outbuildings, and there are sons of Adam and daughters of Eve still in the town. The High King gave orders to spare any of his kind we found. I intend to see to it that we do.” The black answered.

“Why do you care what happens to them?” The gray asked, curious. “It’s not like they’ve ever shown us any kindness.”

“Hmph. Isn’t that the truth.” The black answered. “But the king gave me… gave all of us his trust that we’d do what he ordered. I don’t want to break that trust. If Narnia’s going to all be one pack made up of many races, we can’t. If anyone breaks faith here, it won’t be me.”

The gray considered this then answered, “Nor I. Good luck, Captain Fenring.”

“Same to you, Lieutenant Mawfang.” The black replied before watching the gray and brown disappear towards the raging inferno of the citadel.

Then the black heard the screams of men and women coming from a nearby building, a longhouse of some kind which had caught fire, and took off running towards them. The fire had spread quickly across the structure’s thatch roof and the whole longhouse would soon be consumed he had no doubt. Quickly inspecting the structure, he found the wooden slats nailed together which passed for a door. He could see that the orcs had secured it shut with a latch and a mechanical iron lock of some kind.

Making a quick judgment on the soundness of the door’s construction, he ran and backed up, then dashed towards the door, throwing his entire weight behind him as his armored body slammed into the poorly built door and lock and shattered them completely. He landed on his side hard on the dirt floor with a yelp, then quickly got to his paws. The longhouse was already filled with smoke, and the men and women were choking and gagging on it.

He didn’t know if they understood the common speech or not, but he tried anyway, “The door is open!! Get out before the whole place comes down!! Go!! Go now!!”

The sons of Adam and daughters of Eve that saw him first recoiled in terror, and doubly so when he began speaking.

“Look, I’m not going to eat you, I promise!! Just get out of here!!” He told them again.

A dark skinned woman who had been cowering apparently got the point that the humongous black wolf was trying to make. She got up from where she had been cowering on the floor and fled past him out the ruined doorway. When the others saw that the wolf had made no move to harm her, they too gained some little courage and fled past him. 

The smoke continued to fill the longhouse as the last of them that could left, but he could still smell more with his sensitive canine nose. Not all of them were still alive. Death has it’s own stench, even recent death, but there were at least two. He quickly dashed within the structure to where his nose told him there was a daughter of Eve, a cub not terribly older than his own cubs back in his den in Narnia, who was still breathing, but unconscious. She was covered in some kind of a filthy burlap cloth which he assumed passed for some kind of the coverings which their kind seemed determined to put on their bodies.

Captain Fenring, as firmly as he could without harming the girl, grabbed the rags she was wearing and dragged her outside and away from the burning building, then rushed back in and did the same for two more. He didn’t know if the cubs’ parents were among those that rushed out of the building or not, but he assumed… he hoped their kind would be at least as compassionate as his own and take care of the little ones regardless.

Nevertheless he couldn’t wait around to find out. Once the little ones were out of immediate danger, he dashed off again in the direction of the next challenge he would face. In all, as he would recount later, he rescued more than two dozen of the humans’ kind from the fires, and put down more orcs than he could count that had survived the burning citadel. Lieutenant Mawfang would dispute those numbers among the rest of the pack, claiming his own as higher, but Fenring stuck by them as he reported them to the high king.

“Well done, Captain Fenring.” The high king would respond as the report was made. “You and your people have done a great service to Narnia and saved many lives in the process. This service will be remembered, I promise you.”

And in one of the few times ever in his life, the wolfish captain would take a human at his word, sensing and smelling no deceit or lie in him, only relief and gratitude in spite of their people’s poor history together. It was a refreshing change, and a sign of good things to come for not only his pack, but for Narnia as a whole.

* * *

“Call up the archers to the shore!” Edmond cried out to the companies standing ready. “Form up! They’re trying to swim to the mainland!”

He and Peter had been carefully watching the scene as the fortress went up in flames. There had been some of its inhabitants that had swarmed over its walls, intending to drop into the sea below, some of them alight with flames themselves. Most smashed into the rocks of the cliffs, but some managed to survive the fall and began to swim.

The archers gathered along the shore and drew their bows, waiting for the order.

“Fire at will!!” Edmond cried out, and hundreds of arrows flew at the orcs in the water with deadly accuracy.

Soon, orc bodies bobbed on the gently lapping waves, their black blood mixing with and then dissipating in the bitter waters of the sea. Some orcs tried to dive beneath the water and swim as far as they could to avoid the deadly shafts, but they could only do this for so long. Those who reached the beach were shot down where they emerged.

* * *

As dusk fell, the eagles and griffins returned to the island to provide transport to the Narnian troops that had fought the battle there. Sir Eric once more mounted on Fleetfeather did an overflight of the fortress and its surrounding structures which continued to burn. No more orcs could be seen attempting to escape the blazes, and none could be seen wondering freely either. Of more concern was the number of men, women, and children which were huddled in fear on the eastern edge of the island in a makeshift evacuation camp. They had been rounded up and herded by the talking wolves and mice to that location for their own safety. Many appeared to be wounded and in need of healers and physicians. Of course all would need transport to the mainland. How all of that was to be arranged, and what they would do with their newfound freedom was not for him to decide.

As he flew across the island, they spied the gray cloaked elven lady and a contingent of mice riding on the backs of their canine brothers in arms heading into the forested interior. He did not know the details of that mission, but could surmise that it would be in the interests of acquiring more allies for their next move.


	10. Chapter 10

It was midday as the army rested briefly from their march to eat, yet one would not know it. The sky above them grew darker, it seemed, with every step they took north towards the Plateau of Gorgoroth. The closer they came, the blacker the cloud cover became, and arcs of unnaturally hued lightning jumped across them at intervals, followed by thunder that always seemed too close. It was a perpetual thunderstorm without the cooling rain one would expect.

It had taken the Narnians longer than they had anticipated to treat and evacuate the slaves from the island fortress to their kin on the mainland. The slaves did not trust their liberators at first, even after freeing them from the orcs’ enslavement. The many hours it took to convince them of their benevolent intentions had cost them another day’s worth of time which the two kings increasingly felt they had precious little of. Neither of them could explain that feeling to themselves much less than to each other, but they knew their time for calling Sauron out was growing shorter. Nevertheless, they both agreed they would not leave other sons of Adam and daughters of Eve in such dire and ruined conditions if they could help it. The fires from the fortress and outbuildings were yet burning even as the army packed up and moved northward two days after the campaign against it.

They lost fifty three wolves out of the two hundred which were sent, and eleven mice out of the original company of fifty led by Klippiwick. Twelve of the wolves which had been sent had survived, but been badly injured by either fire or orc blade. Six of their talking rodent commandos had also been injured to where they wouldn’t be able to continue the fight. They had been fortunate none of their griffins or eagles had been injured. Their diminutive assassins had done their work on the orc archers well.

As the high king and his brother tallied up the number of combat ready troops at this juncture of their march, after the severely injured had been taken into account and sent to the rear to be escorted home, and including those necessary escorts, the kings discovered they still maintained a fighting force of just shy of twenty thousand among all their companies and regiments.

Those twenty thousand now marched northwards on broken roads towards lands bleaker and more desolate than any they had ever encountered before. Before them, and always in their sights, lay the far off burning peak of the mountain the elf woman called in her language, Orodruin, and the Gondorian knight referred to as “Mt. Doom.” This hellish vista glowed continuously with orange and red fire visible in either day or night like some kind of beacon of the damned, and dominated the plateau to which they were traveling. Where the region around the Sea of Nurnen had been temperate, the further north they went, the hotter and more unpleasant it became even as it grew darker. The very air around them became gradually thicker with the stench of gasses that made it uncomfortable for many in the army to just take a breath.

High King Peter and King Edmond rode as always at the front of the company. They were joined by the elf woman, Eltariel, who knew the layout of the land far better than they, where the orcs would have their outposts and garrisons, and which roads to take. Their goal that day was the southern gate of Gorgoroth known as Ennyn Ur.

Unlike its larger sibling, called in her language Morannon, and in the common speech, “The Black Gate,” the gate of Ennyn Ur was only lightly guarded, and rarely closed, as Sauron never contemplated an attack from within lands he already controlled. As Eltariel explained the night before the march in their command tent to the kings and captains present, there were other reasons for the dark lord’s seeming complacency as well.

“Beyond the southern gate are vast fields of magma and volcanic rock that are treacherous for any to cross.” She had explained to them.

“But there are ways through?” King Edmond had asked.

“There are, but the roads through and around them are difficult to traverse.” She had replied.

“It won’t matter either way.” The high king then spoke up, considered the map of Mordor which lay in front of him on the table and which had been updated by Eltariel’s centuries of knowledge regarding the terrain.

“It won’t?” Edmond had asked, confused.

“Not to us at least.” Peter had clarified. “Because we’re not going in there.”

“Forgive me, your majesty, I don’t understand.” Sir Eric had then asked. “I thought the purpose of our march was to enter Gorgoroth and distract them from the ringbearer.”

“And it still is, good knight.” The high king had responded. “But we’ve no need to pass beyond the gate ourselves to do that. We only need to give Sauron a reason to send his forces at us through the gate and draw them away from Mt. Doom. And we may have the advantage in so doing.”

“How so?” Sir Eric asked, looking at the map.

“Because the gate of Ennyn Ur is relatively narrow compared to its northern sibling. When Morannon opens, hundreds of orcs can be fielded at once. Not so, with Ennyn Ur.” Eltariel then spoke up. “Sauron’s troops will bottleneck as they attempt to come through, and it will take time which we can use to our benefit. They’ll mass on the other side, only able to send tens of soldiers through at a time to reach us.”

“At which point, we can use what’s left of our bombs to decimate their forces from the sky on the other side of the gate, while our archers do what they can with those coming through.” King Edmond continued, following her train of thought. “But the flying scouts may take heavy losses from their arrows.”

“They may.” Peter conceded. “But this is our endgame. This is why we have come. After we have drawn as many of their forces to us as we can, we’re in Aslan’s hands, so to speak.”

“They’ll have to make every bomb count, your majesties.” One of the dwarven captains spoke up. “After the run on Sharkhburz, we’ve precious few of them left. Once they’re gone, they’re gone.”

“So noted.” The high king told him with all seriousness. “After this next battle, we won’t need them either way.”

“Your majesty?” The dwarf questioned the finality of his king’s tone.

“This battle is for more than Narnia, Captain, it’s for our entire world. If we don’t succeed in drawing all of Mordor’s forces, if this ringbearer we were told of is caught by them, then all of this has been for nothing.” The high king spoke with passion, his voice strengthened by the memories of all those lost on their march. “Sauron and his armies will march across the whole world, Narnia included, and turn it into the desiccated, poisoned wasteland his own realm is. All that we know, all that we love, will be lost. There will be no retreat. There will be no surrender. We fight for this world, for Narnia, and for Aslan. We fight until the last soldier falls, either theirs or ours.” 

Peter had slept fitfully that night before they broke camp at dawn. He kept seeing the images of good Narnians being split open and run through by orc swords. He kept hearing the screech of the nazgul as it taunted him by openly murdering his troops in front of him with impunity. The images of the half-orc children kept coming back to haunt him throughout the night both waking and sleeping. Their dead eyes were always pointed directly at him in accusation.

When dawn broke, he and Edmond had sent their last letters by way of eagle back to Cair Paravel. In addition to reports and matters of war business, after having discussed it, they had both included personal good-byes to their sisters should they fall in battle. Both knew what could happen by the end of that day.

The march for the better part of the day had been strangely quiet. They had expected to encounter some resistance, or to take some party of orcs unawares as they had between Lithlad and the Sea of Nurnen, but there was no one on that bleak road up into the blackened lands, neither wagons of cargo nor company of soldiers. What outposts and fortifications the scouts reported seeing on the route before them appeared abandoned as well. While this was good news as far as their immediate concerns about dealing with opposition up the long dirt and stone paved road, it was also worrying.

“The fires of Tamon Angren have gone cold?” Eltariel had questioned upon hearing the eagle deliver her report to the kings.

“We saw no one there, and no fires of any kind.” The talking eagle had confirmed for her as the army had been given leave to rest briefly along the pass. “The mining settlement looked to have been abandoned for weeks at least.”

“What could that mean?” King Edmond had asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen it happen before.” The elf woman replied. “Mordor doesn’t lightly abandon its strategic outposts, especially not those that produce its machines of war and guard its points of entry.”

“Perhaps they took bigger losses in their recent battles in the west than we were led to believe?” The junior king proposed.

“Perhaps.” The high king reasoned. “Is it accessible enough that we could use its walls to make camp in for the night? We’ll need to be fresh for what fight there is to come on the morrow.”

“Yes. There’s a road that leads straight up into it.” Eltariel answered.

“Then we make for Tamon Angren to make camp, and turn our faces to Ennyn Ur and what is to come tomorrow. It’ll be a poor showing if we challenge Sauron with all our troops exhausted from the march.” Peter told them.

* * *

Sir Eric flew high over the Plateau of Gorgoroth, well out of arrow range but beneath the terrifying lightning which arced across the clouds, as he and Fleetfeather scouted the black lands. What he and the griffin saw was not encouraging. It looked to him as if there was nothing but a sea of unwashed orc armies between the mountain ranges of the Ephel Duath to the west and the Ered Lithui to the north. Most of them appeared to be massed in Udun before the Black Gate as if the dark lord expected Gondor’s armies to mount an assault any day, though large hosts had been posted around Mt. Doom and Barad-dur itself. He had no way of counting the numbers of these hosts, but if he were to guess, Sauron had congregated every orc in Middle Earth he could spare to fortify the volcanic hellscape.

On a hunch, he encouraged Fleetfeather to fly farther west and north to the black gate to observe the country beyond it. It had been months since he had seen his homeland of Gondor, and even from the air to be so close and not look upon it was difficult for him. He knew that somewhere to the west of them, his family still waited for news and his safe return.

What stories he would have to share with them!

As they briefly crossed the mountains of the Ephel Duath to the northwest, and his eyes once more beheld the green and growing lands of Gondor, they beheld something more in the distance west, across the region of Ithilian towards the white city of Minas Tirith.

“Fleetfeather, turn your eyes west for me, would you and tell me what you see?!” He asked the griffin.

His flying companion complied, taking in everything he could with his sharpened eyesight.

“I see a host of soldiers on foot and on horseback traveling through the site of a great battle where the dead are still being gathered for burial or burning. They travel in the direction of the Black Gate. They’re about a day’s march away from it. They are led by a kingly man on horseback, and look to be coming from the white tower in the distance.” Fleetfeather replied. “They do not look to be a large enough force to take the Black Gate if that is their objective. They are only a few thousand where the host of Mordor behind the gate is easily ten times their number.”

The knight had seen the army in the distance as well, though could not see all the details the griffin could. He wondered at who the kingly man who led them could be, and why he would lead such a small portion of Gondor’s armies against such an impenetrable obstacle. It was a suicide errand at the very least.

“Turn back, my friend. We need to inform the kings of Gondor’s march to Morannon.” Sir Eric told him, and the griffin complied, banking gracefully in the sky and turning back to the east and south. Internally he continued to wonder, What in the blazes could Lord Denethor be thinking?

Flying back over the western mountains of Mordor from their long circuit, they passed high above and over another tower not unlike Minas Tirith in the distance, and yet the two could not be more dissimilar in feel. Sir Eric turned his eyes towards the parapets and towers of that city now called Minas Morgul almost unwillingly to see them manned heavily still with the foul races. There was a disturbing, evil presence about the fallen city which could be felt even from that great height. He wondered if its great towers and architecture would ever be free from the stain of black sorcery which radiated from it.

Continuing on, their flight path took them over Cirith Ungol, “the Spider’s Cleft,” a dangerous pass through the western mountains, and the orc fortress which guarded it. As they flew over, the knight noticed something unusual. There was no movement in or around the fortress.

“Fly over that fortress again, Fleetfeather, and drop lower!” Sir Eric called to him. “Something’s not right about this!”

The griffin obeyed, dropping down to where they could get a better view of the situation on the ground. When they did, both rider and mount were in total amazement. Instead of orc warriors watching the grounds and walls, there was no one but rotting corpses, all of them appearing to have been slain in combat, but by what or who neither could say.

“Could Gondor already have a force in Mordor the dark lord doesn’t know about?!” Fleetfeather asked.

“They’d have been desperate, and foolishly reckless, to come through the pass of Cirith Ungol if they did!” Sir Eric replied. “But there had been no plans for one that I was made aware of before my expedition left Minas Tirith.”

Leaving the dead fortress and the pass behind they continued to fly onwards towards Mt. Doom before turning south to rendezvous with the ground troops still marching north. They flew over a desolate and nightmarish landscape shaped by the volcano which served as Mordor’s beating heart. Across that landscape were marshalled battalion after battalion of Sauron’s forces. Flying across the landscape, Fleetfeather’s sharper eyes spotted something that looked so out of place as to be unbelievable.

“Look, down there beneath us, among those rocks!” The griffin called out to his rider. “Am I mistaken, or are those two children down there?”

What? Sir Eric asked himself as he scanned the region the griffin flew over, circling back and lower to see it again. He saw large numbers of orcs in iron armor marching northwards towards the black gate, and even more waiting and drilling. He saw no-

“Wait! I do see them! Two young boys trying to keep out of sight from the orc patrols around them. It looks like they’re trying to go further into Mordor.” The knight told the griffin incredulously. “What are two mannish children doing here?!”

“Are you sure they’re of your race?!” The griffin asked, pointing his better eyes at the unusual site. “They look to have somewhat sharper ears and larger, bare feet than your own. The one also appears to have gray hair like an elder.”

Large bare feet? Sir Eric tried to think as he observed them while Fleetfeather circled. Then he realized what they were. The two unusual invaders weren’t children at all. They were hobbits, a diminutive race he’d only heard of from the northwestern country called The Shire. He’d never met one personally as they didn’t like to travel outside their own homeland as a rule, and he’d never been to their region of Eriador before. They enjoyed homely comforts, farming, and family, and despised anything which disrupted their quiet, rural living.

What in all the world are two hobbits doing in the middle of Mordor of all places? Sir Eric asked himself, trying to process what he was seeing. And then it dawned on him what they were doing there and why they were traveling further into that hellish place instead of trying to escape it.

What strange madness is this?!! He thought as the realization came upon him.

“Fly Fleetfeather! Make haste! We must return to the kings at once!” The knight told the griffin.

The knight and the griffin had found the bearers of Sauron’s ring. They were a day’s walk from Mt. Doom, and there was a sea of armed orcs in between them and their goal.

* * *  
At Tamon Angren… 

“Both the griffin and I saw them with our own eyes. There was no mistake, your majesties. Some madman sent two little hobbits, shorter in stature than even dwarves and much less prepared for a fight, into that nightmare, though how they made it so far on their own can only be attributed to divine providence. I am certain these were the ringbearers we were sent to aid.” Sir Eric made his report.

Upon locating the army’s camp among what looked like an abandoned mine and fortress, they had landed and the knight went to find the kings immediately while leaving Fleetfeather to rest and eat after the long day of hard flight with the man on his back. He couldn’t be sure for the perpetual darkness that seemed to strangle the land in a continual night, but he thought it was dusk or thereafter when they arrived. He found the army’s leadership, not in the command tent, but within the otherwise abandoned keep of the orc stronghold which had been taken over by them.

“Hobbits?” Eltariel who continued to remain with them as an advisor asked in disbelief. “Who would send hobbits on a mission so dire? You can’t have seen rightly.”

“I’m telling you, both Fleetfeather and I saw them with our own eyes. There was no mistake, unless they were barefooted children of my own race who decided it would be a pleasant adventure to go traipsing through Sauron’s front yard!” The knight returned.

The high king stood nearby, his map of Mordor spread out, looking at the regions which the knight had pointed out, and where they lay in relationship to where he understood their own present camp to be. “We are only a few hours march from Ennyn Ur which is here, is that correct?” He asked, pointing to another place on the map.

“Yes, just about.” The elf woman replied.

“And how long until these ‘hobbits’ you saw will reach the troops blocking their way?” He addressed his question to the knight.

“When Fleetfeather and I saw them, it would have been no more than half a day’s journey, and possibly less. They could be to Mt. Doom by tomorrow afternoon if they did not stop to rest tonight.” The Gondorian told him.

“Assuming that the dark lord takes our bait, how long would it take for Sauron to move his forces to the southern gate? How far away are they?” He asked.

“He has a sea of troops all throughout the Plateau of Gorgoroth, though the bulk of them are north of Mt. Doom, nearer to the Black Gate.” Sir Eric replied. “For the enemy to muster his entire force to Ennyn Ur, I’d say no more than twelve hours, but we’d see smaller companies crossing through before that.”

“So we have to get his attention twelve hours before we expect to fight the bulk of his forces.” Peter then said, the gears of his mind whirring behind his eyes as he continued to stare at the map. “That potentially gives us control over when we fight, and time to arrange our forces around the gate so that we control the terrain around it. But we need to get his attention focused on us soon, or our little friends will find their path completely barred.”

“What are you thinking, Peter?” King Edmond asked.

“We have to move them out of the way for the ringbearers as soon as possible. Eltariel and myself will gather two thousand of our best warriors and leave for Ennyn Ur immediately. Edmond, you remain behind. See to it that the army is marching in six hours. They’ll need all the rest we can give them. Our force will draw the dark lord’s attention to us and deal with the smaller companies as they come. If all goes well, you will have the rest of our army in place nine hours or so from now for when the bulk of them arrive at the gate.” Peter explained his plan.

The high king then asked Eltariel, “Carnan said she would provide her own reinforcements before dawn tomorrow? Did she say of what kind?”

“No. Only that it would take some time to call them, and we would see them before dawn at Ennyn Ur.” Eltariel replied.

“What was your impression? Do you trust her word?” King Edmond asked.

“I do. There is no deception among the spirits of nature that I have ever known.” The elf woman replied. “She hates the orcs and their master more than we do.”

“It will have to be good enough.” Peter said, then instructed the military captains who had been standing by, “I want two thousand of your best ready to move out in one half of an hour. Don’t choose those you know are of weak constitution, or who do not have the strength to hold out for hours. Tonight, they will get no more sleep than they’ve already had, will need to march for several hours, and will likely be in combat until midday tomorrow. Go.” Then, as Klippiwick moved to carry out his orders, Peter addressed him specially, “We will need your people positioned on the heights of the gate itself, noble mouse.”

The mouse gave a salute to his high king, “By your command, your majesty.” then moved to gather his stealthy assassins for their part to play.

Sir Eric stood there waiting for further instructions himself as the high king had not mentioned his name in any of the orders he had issued. When Peter said nothing more, he inquired, “And I, your majesty, what role would you have me play?”

The high king then looked at the Gondorian soldier wearily before he spoke. There was a friendly manner in his eyes, and one of concern for the man who had so readily risked himself and his own homecoming for their people.

“I cannot ask any more of you than you have already freely given, Sir Eric of Belfalas.” High King Peter told him. “I release you from any more perceived obligation. I would see Fleetfeather fly you home safely to your family and your country, and know that I could at least procure this for you that I could not procure for others. You have already rendered service to us beyond what was necessary.”

Stunned at the king’s answer, the knight did not know how to respond for several moments as he processed the words. “How can I face my son, my daughter, or my wife knowing that I abandoned you and yours when you need every sword you can get? Where would my honor be then? What kind of knight, what kind of man would I be? Your majesty, I appreciate your offer more than you can know. I could only hope that should Gondor’s true king return to his throne he be at least half the man I have come to know you to be. I would serve that man willingly and unreservedly, just as I offer my service and my sword to you here and now in this fight.”

The knight’s speech was sincere and impassioned as the words flowed. He meant every part of it. Gondor and all of Middle Earth should only be so lucky as to have such kings and queens as Narnia had been blessed with that cared so much and were willing to sacrifice so much for the people they loved and who loved them.

The high king’s countenance took on a pained expression at the knight’s words. Grateful, appreciative, but pained as though he did not want to be responsible for even one more soul that might fall under his watch. After another moment passed between them, he replied, “Then I ask you to remain here and rest with the griffins and eagles until the whole army marches. When they do, you and Fleetfeather will lead the bombing campaign against Sauron’s forces once they reach the gates. When the bombs are exhausted, I want you to break off and keep watch on the ringbearers’ progress as best you can. You and Fleetfeather alone know what they look like and how to spot them. Find them and render whatever aid you can if you have to.”

Sir Eric nodded, “Very good, your majesty.” He responded. “It will be done.”

* * *

The gates of Ennyn Ur loomed before them in the darkness like a silent monster as they came within the sight of the smaller force of Narnians around the midnight watch. Watch fires burning from its parapets and towers provided the only light in the otherwise utter darkness of the Mordor night. These fires played upon the spikes and threatening architecture of the gate so much that it seemed to take on a shadowy life of its own, watching the two thousand troops approach its maw in anticipation.

When Peter and Eltariel came to stand before it in the darkness, the regiment of Narnia’s finest warriors at their backs, that maw, a narrow gate only wide enough to allow a wagon with a horse and rider on either side of it at most to pass through, was closed tightly. Some, but not many shadows of manlike beings scurried back and forth along the parapets and towers of the gate, making their presence known, but uncertain as to what to do or how to respond to the host which now faced them in the dead of night.

From the back of his war horse, the high king of Narnia turned to the elf woman riding a gelding next to him and asked, “There aren’t many orcs up there to send a message. How do you expect for Sauron to know you’re here from so far away and so remote a corner of his realm?”

The elf woman smiled at the king a sad, knowing kind of smile, as though she had carried the burden of the answer to that question for centuries and it was a heavy load indeed. 

“He will know.” She responded.

Not understanding and not knowing what to expect, he nodded at her and gestured for her to make her challenge in that deserted and empty location.

She dismounted from the horse she rode and with purpose and courage strode towards the evil gate. As she did, she flexed the fingers of her right hand, making a fist and then releasing it over and over again. Finally she stopped, one lonely elf woman facing the entrance to hell it seemed. She raised her left hand and made a fist. She then began to chant in a language which neither Peter nor the Narnians knew. 

As she spoke the words, the ring on her finger glowed brightly and brilliantly, “Er Corma ilyar turien, Er Corma tuvien te, Er Corma tucien ar ancalimasse nutien te.”

The words grew stronger and more powerful as she chanted. Her voice changed with them, taking on a strength and a majesty which could almost be described as godlike, terrifying and beautiful at the same time. Her whole being, her whole body began to glow with the innate light of her people, the light of the Eldar, until she appeared as a star come down to the earth, shining its light brilliantly and banishing the near tangible darkness around them.

Peter wept for the sight, for it was glorious in its power and display of radiance and beauty. It promised justice and righteousness, and the destruction of the darkness if only one would use it to such ends. The very ground around them reverberated with that power and he felt the compulsion to heed it, to bow down to it, to follow it to the ends of the world and beyond in obedience to it.

From the top of the gate, the high king could hear the screams of those orcs and fiends which had been caught exposed to the radiant light. They fought over each other to try and escape it, even attempting to jump from the heights of the gate to the ground behind it to try and flee from the brightness of its glory.

And then when it seemed like the rapture of the power unleashed in the display of pure, holy light could get no brighter, no more glorious, she cried out in common with a voice like thunder so that the high king was convinced all of Mordor, no, all the world could hear it clearly, “I, ELTARIEL, BLADE OF GALADRIEL, CHALLENGE YOU, SAURON, AGENT OF DARKNESS AND FALSE LORD OF THE RING!!! HERE I STAND AT YOUR GATES WAITING FOR YOU TO COME AND CLAIM IT IF YOU DARE.”

The light around her continued to blaze in glory as she fell silent, waiting as if for an answer. Several moments went by until a voice spoke out from the darkness across the landscpe, fell and ominous, and tinged with mocking laughter, “YOU KNOW NOTHING OF POWER ELF GIRL. YES, WE WILL FINISH WHAT BEGAN WITH CELEBRIMBOR, AND YOU WILL KNOW THE TRUE MEANING OF DARKNESS.”

“WE WILL SEE.” She returned once more as the light continued to flare.

Sauron’s only response was laughter. An evil, mocking, tainted laughter that rang from one side of the Plateau of Gorgoroth to the other.

And only then did the flare of light begin to die down until there was only the strange glowing blue lettering that there had been before on the silver ring she held. She withdrew her left hand and lowered it. Then slowly, deliberately turned and walked back to where the high king of Narnia still sat mounted on his warhorse, stunned and unable to verbalize what he was feeling or thinking. As she drew nearer, he then saw the tears which had been running down her cheeks.

It only then hit him what kind of a toll having to hold that much power in check over the centuries must have taken on the elf woman. How much strength of character, how much pure goodness must it take to wield that power, and not use it?

“Stand ready.” She said, wiping her tears with her right hand before drawing her own swords from her back. “They will be coming. All of them. The only thing Sauron wants more in all the world than this ring is his own, and he still doesn’t know where that one is.”

“Then let’s keep it that way, my lady.” Peter responded as he drew his sword and prepared for battle.


	11. Chapter 11

The first wave of orcs came through the gate of Ennyn Ur within minutes. It had been a company of fifty which was closest to the southern pass when Eltariel’s challenge rang out. Peter had already stationed the archers with him to either side of the gate and before it. The orc bodies dropped within seconds of crossing the threshold before they even had a chance to reach the rest of the waiting warriors, their black blood spilling on the ground before it. The orcish archers on the towers, once they had recovered themselves attempted to drive their Narnian counterparts away from the base of the gates, but found themselves quickly dispatched by tiny, unseen knives in the darkness.

These were followed by more, smaller companies shortly afterwards within random intervals, but by the first hour after the midnight, the flow of orc soldiers became nearly constant and the Narnian cavalry and foot soldiers that had joined their king and his captains for what they knew would be a marathon fight through the darkness of the night found themselves engaging wave after wave of an unending stream of twisted nightmarish caricatures of elves or men.

The mice commandos whom Peter had wisely stationed at the top of the gates did their duty well, keeping it free from Sauron’s own archers. The orc commanders, not being able to see Klippiwick and his mice for their size, couldn’t understand why their own troops sent up to its heights kept being cut down and lost so quickly. Rumors quickly spread among them of wraiths in the attacking army, ghostly assassins among their ranks and soon, no matter how hard the enemy commanders beat and whipped them, the orc archers refused to take their stations at the top of the towers of the gates. Thus the Narnians hid up against the very walls of the barrier with impunity.

Peter cut and slashed from the back of his warhorse, riding down one orc, before thrusting his blade through another’s eye, then turning and with a great and deadly arc decapitating another. His middle aged human arms grew tired, but still he pressed on, unwilling to retreat from the fight or abandon those he had called to hold the line.

The high king saw the gigantic minotaurs fighting back to back with fauns and centaurs in the continuous melee against the ever increasing onslaught, their battle axes swinging again and again dealing death with every blow. He saw sons of Adam from Archenland holding the line alongside dwarves and talking wolves. Narnian rhinoceroses charged the enemy, stampeding over them, while massive Narnian bears sent more flying with their great swipes, crushing them with their blows. Narnian leopards leaped at them, tearing out throats and ripping foul flesh with their sharp claws while Narnian wolves hunted alongside them. Again and again the dark night was filled with the animal roars and screams of the combatants as they unleashed a savage fury on the army of shadow.

The elf woman, Eltariel, had forgone the gelding she rode and leaped at the orcs with both swords drawn as though she were a whirlwind of elvish steel. The high king hadn’t before believed a natural creature could move so gracefully and lethally in combat as she did. Every time she moved it was like a choreographed ballet of death against the fiends, where a pirouette resulted in a disembowelment or decapitation, and a leap over an orc resulted in that monster’s head being cleaved in two. It was beautiful and terrifying, mesmerizing even to watch if he would have been afforded the opportunity to do so.

The stench of death was everywhere as the orc corpses began to build around the gates from both the archers’ arrows and the bite of the Narnians’ steel. But not all of the corpses were those of orcs. If the enemy’s purpose behind the waste of the continuous stream of soldiers was to slowly whittle down their forces, it was achieving its end as the orcs managed to reduce the Narnians presence one by one.

And the battle for Ennyn Ur dragged on, minute after minute, hour after hour.

When he was able to realize it, the one enemy Sauron did not send against them in the wee hours of that dark morning were the nazgul. The skies had remained strangely clear since the beginnings of the orc onslaught. He did not have much time to dwell on it however as another pale skinned attacker aimed a crudely forged iron sword towards his warhorse’s armored head. The horse reared and kicked at the attacker, implanting the stallion’s hoof prints into the orc’s skull hard, cracking the creature’s head and exposing blackened gray matter. The orc fell and didn’t get up again. Immediately another took its place.

After an eternity of fighting, the high king raised his lion crested shield once more to block another fiend’s ax, and meant to counter-attack with his own blade, but the warhorse he rode stumbled and the high king missed. The orc dodged the strike, and came around for another of his own. Peter raised his shield once more, but his arm, feeling as though full of lead, didn’t want to respond as fast as his mind processed it. The ax struck against Peter’s breastplate and the high king fell from his saddle to the ground. The orc raised his ax again, and then Peter watched as a massive double bladed battle-ax tore the orc’s head from his shoulders. The next thing the high king saw through the slits of his helm was a minotaur’s gargantuan bovine head looking down on him and reaching out his hand.

“My king!” the minotaur called in its deep resonant voice, “Take my hand!”

Peter reached out with his steel gauntlet and took the bullish warrior’s hand. The minotaur pulled him from the ground and to his feet. “You’ve been fighting for hours! Your mount is down! I’ve got to get you to the rear line! Let the others take the front for now! You can’t keep going like this!”

Peter looked to where the minotaur was gesturing and saw his warhorse, fallen to the ground, deep scarlet gashes across its body and neck. The white stallion wasn’t moving.

Wordlessly, he nodded at the minotaur, only then realizing that he could barely move his legs and arms for the bloody work he had forced them to keep up. The minotaur took his king and half led him, half carried him through the warring soldiers back away from the gate. Soon, they reached the rear line where a number of others had been taken to rest while those who had been in the rear at first stepped up to contend with the continuous flow of orcs through the gate.

Peter flipped up the visor to his armored helm and looked around at the exhausted warriors trying to catch their breaths and come to their senses for just a few minutes before heading back to the front. Many were injured and were bleeding from various non-fatal wounds.

“How bad… how bad are we?” He asked the minotaur who remained to ensure his king’s safety, his breath coming in gasps. His arms felt like lead, and his legs were shaky as he tried to stand.

“I’ve no count, your majesty, but we’re still holding them back. The archers are still taking most of them at the portal, collecting their own arrows and those off the dead where they can. If I was to guess, I’d say we’ve lost twenty percent of our force.

“How long til dawn?” Peter then asked, realizing he had no idea how long it had actually been since the fighting began in earnest.

“It’s hard to say in this cursed land.” his bodyguard replied. “Day’s not much different from night. Maybe an hour, maybe two. Rest for as long as you can, your majesty. You’ve more than proved yourself in war for a son of Adam this day. I daresay you’ve put some of my own people to shame with the number of orcs that you’ve felled by your own hand!”

Peter wanted to argue, he wanted to march back out their but his own legs betrayed him just then. He didn’t want his troops to bear the brunt of it and he be safe in the rear. That was no place for a king to be in his mind, but he couldn’t. Conceding to the reality of the situation, he nodded to his protector and said with a smirk, “Five minutes, then?”

The minotaur grinned and replied, “As your majesty wishes.”

He did not see the elf woman with the exhausted in the rear, and yet she had been fighting on the front for just as long as he. “Where is Eltariel?” He asked.

“The woman?” the minotaur responded. “Last I caught sight of her, and that’s a damn hard thing to do in the middle of a fight mind you, she was still moving like a storm of her own making through the orcs. I’ve never seen one fight so fast and so hard as she, ‘specially a female. She’s not slowed down one wit since she called the enemy out, now has she? I’d hate to face an army of her people if they’re all like that one.”

Peter nodded in agreement, wondering if it was the constitution of her people or the power lent her by the ring she wore, as his wobbly legs forced him to the ground to sit next to a faun who had received a nasty scarlet slash across his face. One of his goat like horns was missing, and only a bloody stump remained where it had once been. The faun nodded at his king’s presence respectfully, and Peter recognized him. He was the third captain of the faun swordsmen.

“How fares your company, Captain?” Peter asked.

“Better than some, your majesty, last I saw. Have no fear, our people will keep the bastards in check, you’ll see.” The faun captain replied.

“It’s the Archenlanders that’ve taken the brunt of what losses we’ve seen, your majesty.” A centaur that stood nearby told him. “They’ve the heart for the fight, but they tire faster than the rest of us, and forgive me for saying it, but your kind don’t have the same senses at night or reflexes some of the rest of us do. I’d be lying if I told you we’d see most of them still standing by dawn.”

“Haven’t they been rotated out for rest?” The high king asked, concerned.

“When we can relieve them. The orcs tend to target them first as if they know they might be easier prey.” The centaur responded.

In spite of his exhaustion, Peter’s mind began to recall the details of the fighting he had done, and what he had and hadn’t seen. From the downing of his first orc that night it had been one moving blur, the attackers blending one into another as his sword came down on them and their vital fluids sprayed against his armor and his horse until he was once more covered in black gore. His mind came around to the absence of the nazgul. It had been such a powerful tool of Sauron’s at the river battle. Why hadn’t the dark lord sent another? Supposedly there had been nine according to Sir Eric and Eltariel.

And then the answer hit him. Aslan. Aslan had destroyed the nazgul that Sauron had sent, and this had surprised the dark lord. The enemy couldn’t know that the Great Lion wasn’t with them at the moment. If he himself only had a very limited number of such wraiths, would he send them into battle knowing that the enemy could destroy them at will? Or would he test the enemy forces with pawns and grunts to see what weapons they fielded against these first? There was also the question of Eltariel and the ring she bore. The power Peter felt radiating from her as she challenged Sauron was easily the equal if not the superior to the wraith’s projected fear. Between the threat of Aslan and Eltariel’s ring he could imagine Sauron would be hesitant to field his most powerful servants just yet.

Peter felt his strength returning to his legs and arms, and he stood up from where he had sat, testing them. They were sore but serviceable, and unlike many, he had received no wounds that his armor had not blocked.

“My king, are you well?” The minotaur asked, concerned.

“Well enough to return to the battle in the next rotation. I’ve no right to be sitting here just winded while the rest of our troops suffer and die to keep the monsters at bay. Will you fight at my side, sir minotaur?” Peter responded.

“To the death, your majesty!” The minotaur responded.

“I will join you, if you will have me, your majesty!” The centaur added, drawing his heavy two handed sword.

“And I!” Another voice called out.

“And I!” Still another Narnian responded.

“Then we join the fight to relieve our brothers! For Narnia and for Aslan!” Peter told them, taking up his sword and shield once more, ready to march into battle with all those who would join them.

“For Narnia and for Aslan!” Came the chorus of replies.

It was then that both centaur and minotaur recognized each other from the recruitment camp. The centaur had questioned the loyalties of the minotaurs who came to fight, and the minotaur had challenged him to see who would be the better fighter when the time came.

“Are you ready to fight alongside a minotaur now, centaur?” The minotaur jabbed at him.

“I’m ready to fight and die alongside a brother Narnian, friend.” The centaur replied.

The minotaur grinned and saluted the centaur in sincere response.

The high king and those with him rejoined the front lines, relieving those who had been sorely pressed there, and sending them to the rear lines. In spite of his tired limbs, he felt refreshed and renewed as he fought on foot side by side and back to back with his troops, taking on more waves of the fiends that made it past their archers.

They maintained these rotations, fighting for as long as they could until they were relieved once more by those who had been given the chance to rest. Their numbers continued to dwindle even as the orcs continued to fall before them. They fought and fought until the sky began to lighten, even if only a little. 

Then Peter heard the sound from the sky that he has dreaded to hear. The screeching cry which had accompanied the nazgul. And not just one. Huge, dark colored shapes filled the sky even as dawn began to break. The flew from the south, and were terrifying to see.

This is it then. Peter thought as the sight of the black drakes filling the sky above him took the heart out of him. There must have been dozens of them. Without Aslan present, there was no way the Narnians could…

Dozens? He realized. By his count there were only eight nazgul left that they knew of.

The next thing the high king of Narnia knew, and a sight which caused his heart to leap in his chest with relief and disbelief, the drakes began unleashing dragonfire on the other side of the gate against the enemy forces. The sky was ablaze with the wrath of the great creatures upon the army of shadow, and the drakes began to dive into the legions of orcs, grabbing them with their claws to carry them screaming high into the sky before releasing them to their doom.

“Carnan’s reinforcements!” The king heard the elf woman shout from somewhere nearby. “Carnan has sent a flight of drakes to aid us!”

And then, just as Peter was heartened and took up the fight with a renewed vigor, he heard a Narnian horn sound from the rear, and the pounding footsteps of marching troops. Overhead, the shapes of huge birds of prey and flying beasts, hundreds of them, their screeches as they passed like battle cries across the landscape, flew fast from the south and past the soldiers on the ground across the gate where they began to drop their deadly payloads on the hordes of orcish troops that had amassed themselves on the other side. Explosions began to ring out from beyond Ennyn Ur.

A cheer rose up from the Narnians even as they continued to fight on, and the new, fresh troops quickly came to take their exhausted counterparts’ places sending these worn and weary soldiers back to the rear once more to receive what attention and rest could be afforded them.

As Peter was once more rotated to the rear, now having trouble even standing on his own when out of the reach of the orc swords, he was met by a similarly armored warrior with a crown adorning his helm as well. When his brother saw the high king being escorted by the minotaur and centaur who had stayed by his side the rest of the battle, he left his horse and ran to him, catching him as he lost his footing yet again, and embracing him fiercely even though in armor and in front of their inferiors.

King Edmond did not care if anyone saw as he hugged his brother tightly. “I thought… I didn’t know… I...” He didn’t know what to say to his older brother. The fear that he might have arrived to find Peter as one of the casualties had consumed him all night.

He didn’t have to say anything, “I know, Ed.” Peter replied, returning his brother’s embrace. Then the high king told him, “We’re still here. We’ve held the line, Ed.”

The king then turned to the minotaur who had been his protector that night and told him, “Find the elf woman. Bring her to the rear lines where she has all of our forces between her and Sauron’s. We’ve more than gotten their attention, I’m certain. Our priority now is to protect her and the ring she carries from them. And recall Klippiwick’s company from the gate. Reclaiming its heights will be the least of the orcs’ concerns now.”

“It will be done, your majesty.” The minotaur told him, respectfully bending his great bull’s head in a half bow.

Behind him, he could hear the sounds of the dwarven bombs mixed with the cries of Carnan’s drakes hitting their targets beyond the hateful gate with explosive force again, and again, and again. And slowly, the stream of orcs from the gate’s portal dwindled rather than increased as the monsters were forced to react to this new deadly airborne threat against them.

* * *

Sir Eric surveyed the vast ocean of fel companies beneath them as he flew his bombing mission against the dark lord’s forces. As far as he could tell, Eltariel’s gambit had more than succeeded. Tens of thousands of orcs, trolls, ologs, and every other kind of fiend Sauron could spare had positioned themselves on the other side of the narrow opening just waiting their turn to rush through at the invaders. But that gate which had been built to protect Sauron’s volcanic domain now worked against them for its narrowness and restrictive access just as had been predicted. And while they waited to pass through, the Narnian griffins and eagles rained doom and death from the skies upon the unsuspecting orcs that were hard pressed together.

Terrified, the orcs went into a panic. Many attempted to scatter and run in any direction they could to get away from the flaming death which was being dealt them. But there were few places for them to go, there was such a hard press of their fellows together. The armies of Sauron fell into chaos on the other side of the gate as soldiers disregarded their commanders and warchiefs and began to fight and claw against each other to get away.

In the middle of the chaos, a few olog commanders of the enemy came to their senses enough to call on the archers in their companies. They shot flights of flaming arrows into the sky at Narnia’s flying troops and the young dragons who aided them, and the skies became a lethal minefield for those who continued their assaults on Sauron’s forces. The skyborne attackers drew higher to avoid the arrows, but even still not all could climb fast enough and Sir Eric watched as many of Fleetfeather’s fellows were dropped out of the sky. The griffin and he returned for more armaments from the dwarven wagons repeatedly in a great circuit, each time seeing fewer of their comrades doing the same. 

But the vast orc army which had been brought to bear against the Narnians for the sake of recovering the second ring of power were being torn apart from the skies and from within.

On the last circuit he made, there were none of the dwarven munitions left to take. They had all been expended. Remembering his orders from the high king, he and Fleetfeather then raced north and west to try and find the ringbearers and ensure their safety. They flew far and fast back towards Cirith Ungol where they had first seen the two little hobbits from the sky.

The fields of orcs between the Spider’s Cleft and the ever burning mountain which had previously occupied those spaces in the volcanic landscape had emptied out that the knight could see as they flew onwards. From that height they could see no one, no movement of any kind. Circling and flying towards the peak of Mt. Doom they continued their search.

“Could they have been captured?!” Fleetfeather asked with concern, seeing no one.

“Let’s hope not!” Sir Eric answered. “No! I think that if the dark lord had his prize, we would know it and the battle would be turned harder against us than what it now is!”

After flying back and forth along their course, circling for some time, Fleetfeather then shouted, “I think I see them!”

The griffin flew towards a barely discernible stone path up the hellish mountain’s side which terminated in a stone archway carved into the rock face. Sir Eric strained his eyes to see them, but thee they were, two little ones making their way up the mountainside, slowly but steadily.

“I don’t believe it!” Sir Eric exclaimed in amazement. “Never will I ever laugh at the stories of the little people from the north again! These may look to be made of soft and weak things, but inside they are all steel and resolve! I should be so lucky as to call one friend!”

“Should we land and give them aid?!” Fleetfeather asked.

Watching the two hobbits, Sir Eric shook his head. “I don’t think they need our help, and doing so might draw unwanted attention from the Eye which burns from Barad-dur! Let them be for now until they reach their goal! We know where they are, and can send aid to them once the ring is destroyed!”

Just then, they heard a thunder of war horns to the north. Satisfied that the ringbearers were in no immediate danger, they flew in the direction of the ominous sound. Within minutes they discovered the source. Behind the Black Gate stood the remainder of Sauron’s armies, easily sixty thousand strong. Before the Gate stood the army which they had seen march from Gondor the day before, no more than six thousand that Sir Eric could guess. An old man with long hoary white beard and hair dressed in white robes and carrying a staff rode towards the front and next to the same kingly man on a white horse Fleetfeather had seen before. He wore…

No, it can’t be, but it certainly looks to be The knight thought to himself as he recognized the ancient armor, banners, and livery of the White Tree and seven stars, the sigils of the King of Gondor. And what sword does he raise aloft and taunt the forces at the Black Gate with? Has Isildur’s heir truly been found? Does he return only at this moment to ride against the armies of hell itself?

The next thing he saw was the hated entry into Mordor opening its massive doors, and the wide host of Sauron descending en masse upon the armies of men.

“We have to help them!” Sir Eric cried. “Turn, Fleetfeather, fly back to the Narnians, perhaps they might send what aid in griffins and eagles they have left to them!”


	12. Chapter 12

The sounds of the explosions continued to echo for over an hour as the dwarven bombs wreaked their havoc on the orc army. The Narnians maintained their presence at the gate, destroying any of the shadow’s warriors that came through, still holding them at bay. Then, the last of the bombs exploded, and the only sounds left were the panicked cries of the orcs, and the screeching of the drakes as they maintained their bombardment of fire against the orc lines, driving the fiends mad with terror as everyone knows orcs fear fire almost as much as they fear the light. But then, the drakes too, having expelled every last blast of fire they held within themselves upon the enemy, had to pull back, unable to call forth more until they themselves had the chance to rest, eat, and recover the gases and liquids within their bellies which produced the wrathful flames. The griffins and the eagles who still remained all retreated back to the safety of the bulk of the Narnian forces, awaiting what further role they might play. The drakes continued southwards, back to their mistress of nature who had sent them. Soon, the skies were clear of them all.

From the rear, the weary high king stood and watched the battle and the retreat of their flying scouts. He wouldn’t know how much damage had been done to the orcs until one of them made their report. The Narnians who now fought at the gate were still fresh and ready to press their advantage if indeed they had one, but there was no way of telling. And the same barrier which had proven their benefit in defense, now proved the same obstacle which it was to the enemy should they choose to go on the attack. They would suffer the same bottleneck. For the moment, it was sufficient for their goals, but should the orcs realize the bombardment was truly over, the soldiers of shadow might find their courage and reform against them.

“You have done well, Peter.” A deep, leonine voice told him.

Startled, Peter turned to see the Great Lion himself. From where he had appeared, and how long he had been there was anyone’s guess. Immediately, the king dropped to his knee before his true sovereign.

“Rise, Peter. We still have work to do before this fight is done.” Aslan told him.

Peter obeyed. “We can hold those who come through, but if we’re going to press our advantage, we have to do it now, and the gates block our path just as much as they block the path of the orcs.”

“Well then, we’ll just have to do something about that gate, now won’t we?” Aslan replied. He then told the high king, “Climb on, and hold fast.”

Surprised, Peter obeyed and mounted himself atop Aslan’s back as though riding into battle once more bareback. He held onto the Great Lion’s mane tightly, though it did not seem to bother the True King of Narnia at all.

Aslan then leaped forward, bounding hard and fast though the lines of combatants, all of whom expressed shock and amazement at the sight of their king riding on the lion’s back. Aslan trampled down those orcs who thought to get in his way as though they might have been wildflowers in a field. Then he pulled up and stopped before the southern gate of Mordor. With Peter clinging to his mane, Aslan planted his claws into the rocky ground and roared at the gate.

It was a roar unlike any other. Waves of force projected from the Great Lion’s throat and slammed into the metal, wood, and stone of the fortification hard, splintering it and fracturing it, until it burst apart towards the orc armies on the other side. The shattered wall in which the gate had been set, and the towers which had guarded it were no more, and the pass was clear for any and all to cross at will.

“Now, about the weather here. I think it’s high time the sun shone freely on this land.” Aslan then exclaimed. The Lion then roared another great roar towards the heavens, and the thick dark storm clouds which had kept out the sunlight were blown away and vanished. For the first time in millennia, the sun shone down brightly on the Plateau of Gorgoroth, and the seemingly eternal night of that land was banished.

When the sunlight streamed freely over the armies of orcs, they cried out and screamed in pain and terror at the blazing pure light which had been thrust upon them. Never had they been forced to endure its pure and sacred luminescence like that. They fled, blinded by the light, trying to seek cover from the sun anywhere they could, but there was no cover for them to be found. What trolls that had been brought to bear as beasts of war turned to stone like grotesque statuary at the first touch of the light’s rays. The sunlight flooded the landscape everywhere in a beautiful morning display and wreaked havoc upon the army of shadow.

“WARRIORS OF NARNIA!!” Aslan cried out in a booming voice which echoed across the battlefield. “ADVANCE UPON THE ORCS!! LEAVE NONE ALIVE!!”

A cheer went up among the Narnian troops once more, and then the forces from the east surged forward across the broken barrier and slammed into the panicked and disoriented orcs who, seeing the fresh and determined troops, fled before them, many dropping their weapons, and crushing one another trying to escape.

Aslan himself, Peter still mounted upon him, leaped into the battle as son of Adam and son of the Emperor Across the Sea fought as one, decimating the retreating enemy forces and becoming the head of the spear which broke through them and shattered what resistance that was left, breaking the orc commanders’ will to fight completely. Peter, having been so exhausted from the night’s long fight that he could barely stand, found his strength renewed and more so as living energy seemed to flow from the Great Lion into his tired limbs and mind and he felt stronger, sharper, and more powerful than ever he felt before or since.

The army of Narnia washed over the orcs like a tide leaving black blooded corpses and smashed engines of war in their wake. They actively hunted down those who tried to flee from the battlefield, the Narnian wolves in particular openly tracking them down and following them to whatever cave or hiding hole they could find to end them. There was no place of safety for the fleeing soldiers of Mordor.

Peter and Aslan were in the thick of the fight, having just felled a gargantuan olog whom might have been a warchief of one of the many tribes of the fiends, when a familiar griffin and his rider saw them on the battlefield, looks of astonishment on both their faces at the entire scene. Both were speechless as they observed the Narnians, led by high and True king alike, overrunning an army five times their own strength, and destroying every foul creature in their path. When they came to themselves, they remembered why they had come and descended towards the kings.

“Your majesties!” Sir Eric addressed both Lion and son of Adam, nodding in respect in lieu of a seated bow. “The army of Gondor is at the Black Gate! They will be overrun and crushed without aid!”

“Send the eagles!” Aslan responded without hesitation. “Gather all that remain and fly north as fast as you can! Your rightful king needs your sword, Sir Eric!”

“It’s true then?!” The knight asked, astonished at the Lion’s words. “The heir of Isildur has returned to the throne?!”

“He has, and your oath demands you fight at his side, not ours!” Aslan answered. “Go! Gather the eagles and fly! Fulfill your oath to lord and land, Sir Eric of Belfalas, Knight of Gondor! Fleetfeather, see him quickly to the battle! His presence is needed at once!”

“Yes, your majesty!” The griffin responded.

The knight saluted both Lion and son of Adam with his fist in respect, and a heaviness in his heart for he knew that this would be the last he saw of the extraordinary friends he had made of the legendary land in the east. Then he and Fleetfeather leaped into the sky once more to bring aid to the beleaguered and overwhelmed army of Middle Earth. Moments later, the sky was filled with the eagles streaking north as fast as they could fly, led by a talking griffin with a warrior of man on his back.

“Farewell, good and noble knight of Gondor.” Peter said as he saw them pass overhead once more, and then turned his attention back to the grisly work of war.

The Narnians continued to fight with a seemingly inexhaustible supply of energy as they pressed forward. The sun rose higher in the sky, and then in the mid morning the whole landscape seemed to change. The great flaming eye which rested atop the tower of Barad-dur in the distance raged violently and then exploded, the black tower beneath it disintegrating as it did. A powerful wave of force radiated outwards, blowing a hard wind across the plateau, and the orcs which still remained from the slaughter fell where they had been standing, all will to fight, even to live, drained from them.

Seeing all this, Aslan cried out to the Narnians, “FALL BACK TO THE PASS!! GET OUT OF THE PLATEAU!!”

“Aslan, what has happened?!” Peter asked in astonishment.

“It is done!” The Lion told him triumphantly as he turned and began to try and shepherd the rest of their own forces back quickly. “Sauron’s ring had been destroyed! The dark lord will threaten no one in this world ever again! Now we must get all of our people back to the safety of the pass, quickly!”

“What! Why, Aslan?!” Peter questioned even as the Lion led their troops into a full retreat.

Just then, behind them and to the north, the burning mountain, called in the elvish tongue Orodruin, exploded in a great eruption, shooting flaming and burning rocks into the sky where they fell to the ground all around the plateau. Magma pumped itself from every crevice in the mountain’s exterior and began to flow in great cascading rivers across the dismal and wasted landscape.

Then Peter began to cry out along with the Lion, “FALL BACK!! EVERYONE!! FALL BACK!!”

Just as they had advanced as a wave, so now that wave of Narnian soldiers was in full retreat, scrambling to get out of the way of the wrath of the violently erupting mountain. Behind them, the remains of the orc armies were caught in the fast moving lava and burning debris which threatened to strike and seep into every cave and crevice in the black lands as the volcano continued to rage at the death of its one time dark master.

* * *

The army of Narnia retreated before the volcano back down the pass to where they had made camp the night before at the former mines of Tamon Angren. Aslan did not disappear again, but marched with them the entire way, speaking with the kings, Edmond and Peter as he did preparing them for the eventual journey home.

“I am glad it’s over, Aslan.” Peter told him. “I’m glad this war is finally done. I just wish that we hadn’t lost so many. We’ve still not even been able to take a count of all the dead from today alone.” A sad and melancholy expression took hold of the high king’s countenance as he said, “what do I tell their families and loved ones? What comfort can I give them that they did not come home safely?”

“The truth.” Aslan replied. “That they are not dead. They are not lost at all, but have come to my home forever. They are alive and well with my father in my country across the eastern sea, and they will see them again in time.”

“Have you homes in your country for so many?” Peter asked.

“In my father’s country are many homes for those of courage who seek his will.” Aslan replied. “And all who seek him will find rest there.”

Peter remained silent after that on the subject, trying to comprehend the Great Lion’s words. He was also wrestling with the disappearance of the elf woman, Eltariel, who had left the army of Narnia once Mt. Doom had erupted and the tower of Barad-dur was no more. He wondered what should become of her and her ring, the only ring of power left that he knew of, now that Sauron had been destroyed. When he broached that subject with Aslan, the Lion only responded, “She has her path to follow, and you have yours.”

The next day, a strange visitor came to their camp, though how he came to be there, or who he was know one knew. He was an old man, whether by decades or by centuries no one could tell, with long white hair, and equally long white beard. He was dressed also in long white travelling robes, and carried a staff of wood which itself radiated a kind of power which no one could seem to understand. There was a look of surprise about him as he gazed about the camp.

“Take me to whoever is in charge of this expedition. I would speak with him.” The old man told the guards at the walls, who, in spite of themselves, felt compelled to do exactly as he demanded.

They brought him to the fortress wherein the kings were residing and taking counsel as to how to proceed, and announced him, not to the high king and his brother, but to Aslan who still walked among them and to whom the sons of Adam deferred in obeisance.

The white haired wizard approached the great, majestic Lion with both curiosity and reverence. There was something familiar about the gargantuan cat that he could not quite place. Something which innately demanded his utmost respect and even adoration though he could not explain it.  
"Greetings, Olorin. Welcome, my son." Aslan welcomed him, using the name which no mortal had ever called him by. It was the name his creator and eternal Father had given him before his incarnation as an old, wise man, and even before the founding of Arda itself.  
Gandalf was taken aback in surprise and searched the eyes of the Lion deeply for the truth of who he was. In those feline eyes he saw the depths of eternity, and the person of that same Being who had not only given him life in the first, original song sang before the creation of the world, but restored it to him after the battle with the Balrog.  
Upon this recognition, the millennia old wizard took one knee and bowed deeply, intoning with the deepest reverence and awe, "My Lord Eru, Iluvatar."  
"Among these, as you are known as Gandalf, I am known only as Aslan." the Lion responded.  
"As you wish, Aslan." Gandalf responded, yet still bowed low.  
"Rise, my son." The Lion responded. "And let us talk freely."  
And from there, no mortal present could understand their speech, for it was the language of those the elves and men called ainur, and resembled music and melodies too beautiful even for words to describe.

When they were done with their more private, intimate conversation, the wise old man bowed low before the Lion once more, asking in the common tongue, “Are you certain it must be this way, my Lord?”

“Until all things are brought to completion, yes. The west must not know of any of this. All traces of these people must pass into myth, and forgotten.” Aslan affirmed for him. “And you yourself are to return home with the last of the ring bearers. Once Gondor’s king is properly crowned, your work among them is done, my son.”

Gandalf gave a sad, but understanding expression. “As you wish, my Lord Aslan. Allow me to make the arrangements when the time is right. They will want to say their good-byes properly, as will I.”

“Of course.” Aslan answered. “But take no more time than is necessary.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Gandalf replied.

Then the Great Lion breathed on him, and as the breath flowed around the wizard who still knelt before him, he disappeared from their sight.

* * *

Peter’s sleep was disturbed and filled with images of combat that night. Fiends with beady yellow eyes and sharp teeth lunged at him from the darkness. Good and noble Narnians and Archenlanders alike looked to him as they were decapitated, or disemboweled.

He woke with a start on his bedroll, sweat glistening on his forehead. They were still in the fortress at Tamon Angren, waiting for their wounded to be stable enough to travel. Next to him, his brother Edmond had not yet woken, but his sleep too appeared to be fitful in spite of the exhaustion and exhilaration at the day’s events.

The high king got up from his bedroll and made his way from the inside of the stonework orc fortress to a window where, overhead in the clear night sky, countless stars blinked their greeting to him, happy to be able to shine over that land once more. Peter noted that they were the same stars, and the same constellations as those he would look upon sometimes from his apartments at Cair Paravel.

Cair Paravel… The castle had been his home for four decades, and he and his brother and sisters had played their role as well as they could. They had played the kings and queens everyone wanted and expected them to be. It had been all joy and peace for all that time until the knight had crashed through the woods and turned everything upside down. Up until that point, he hadn’t given serious question to it. Up until now, he hadn’t had to really deal with the other side of being high king.

He hadn’t had to deal with the memories which the carnage of war, the province of kings, brought to him. He had been encouraged with Aslan’s pronouncement that those who had fallen yet lived in his country across the sea. It had taken a great and heavy load from his heart. But it hadn’t erased the trauma of watching them die, or the trauma of killing living beings over and over again until it became easy. These were the burdens he still bore, and he feared they would never be lifted from him.

“You can’t sleep either, Pete?” He heard the voice of his younger brother, Edmond.

“No.” Peter responded. “I just keep seeing their faces.”

Edmond nodded knowingly, “Me too.” He then said to his older brother, “You know what my wish would be now? You know, with the White Stag?”

The White Stag? Peter questioned. He had almost forgotten the legendary beast entirely. “No. What is it?”

“That we could go back to being kids, like we were so long ago, and not remember what we’ve seen here in this horrid land. Not remember their faces in my dreams. If we remembered anything it would only be the happy memories before this war.” Edmond told him. He then asked, “Do you think that’s stupid?”

“No, Ed.” Peter replied. “I don’t think it’s stupid at all. I could wish that for us as well. I could even wish that we could go back and see mother and father one more time. I can’t even remember what they looked like, it’s been so long.”

They both continued to look out at the stars, comforting each other as only brothers can.

* * *

Six months later…

High King Peter, King Edmond, Queen Susan, and Queen Lucy crashed through the brush of the western woods on horseback, pursuing their prey. Once more, impossible though it might seem, the White Stag had been seen once more, and the four co-rulers gave its pursuit one more go. They had pursued it across Narnia westwards towards the Western Woods yet again as the grand animal led them on a merry chase which offered a much needed relief and release for them all.

Finally, it dove once more through a heavy brush and through trees where their horses could not follow. And once more, they found themselves dismounting, and standing around an iron lamp post that appeared to have no business being where it was, far from any city streets.

It was Peter who felt it first, the cool breeze coming from a stand of nearby trees. It flowed across them invitingly in the warm summer day and they chose to investigate it seeing as they had lost their other prey entirely. The four siblings passed through the trees, and then out of Narnia and into myth and legend themselves until one day, a thousand years later, a horn was found and blown, and four English children on their way back to their boarding schools from holiday heard Narnia’s call once again.

THE END


End file.
